CANZONI 

AND 

SONGS  OF  WEDLOCK 


T.A.DALY 


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CANZONI 


BY  T.  A.  DALY 
McARONI BALLADS 
MADRIGALI 
CARMINA 

CANZONI  I  One 

SONGS  OF  WEDLOCK  (  Volume 


Carlotta's  Indecision 

"O!  com',  see  dees  jew'ler  store.' 


Page  7 


C ANZON I 


AND 


SONGS  OF  WEDLOCK 


BY 

T.  A.  DALY 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
JOHN  SLOAN 


m 


,i>  3    Z> 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT.  BRACE  AND  HOWE 


COPYRIGHT,    1906,    BY 
't.   a.   DALY 

COPYRIGHT,    I916,    BY 
DAVID   MCKAY 


*■  *  •  * 
•  •  •  • 

•  *  ■  * 
•••  •   • 


Co 
MY  WIFE 
AND  CHILDREN 


439199 


CONTENTS 

CANZONI 

PAGE 

DA   COMICA   MAN 3 

GOOD    MORNING 5 

CARLOTTA'S    INDECISION 7 

BALLADE  TO  THE  WOMEN 9 

IN  THE  AUGUST  NIGHT II 

DA   BLUE    DEVIL I3 

FATHER    O'SHEA   AND    FATHER    M'CREA  .  .15 

HEARTS    APART I7 

BALLADE  OF  THOSE  PRESENT            .          .          .          .  18 

— -LEETLA  HUMPY  JEEM 20 

IF  YOU  WERE  A  BOY 22 

A  NEW  PATRIOT         .  .  .  .  .  .  .24 

DOLCE    FAR    NIENTE 25 

A   DIXIE   LULLABY 26 

DA    GREATA    STRONGA    MAN 27 

..^THE    "ouches" 29 

FATHER    DAN    o'M ALLEY 3O 

CONTENT 34 

^-''w'at'sa  use? .       .35 

kiss  HER 37 

DEAR  UNSELFISH   DAN 38 

HER   ANSWER '         .          .          .  4O" 

^^  kitty's    GRADUATION 4I 

AN  ITALIAN   KING 45 

DA  PRITTA  LADY ,          .  47 

A    FROSTY    MORNING 49 

TO  THE  GROWLER 5I 

THE    NATIONAL    ENCAMPMENT       ....  53 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

AT  CASTLE  GARDEN 54 

THE  WISDOM  OF  THE  SPARROWS 5/ 

THE    MODEST    COLLEEN 59 

THE  OLD   PARISHIONER 6o 

THE   "  BUILDING   INSPECTOR  "  .  .  .  .62 

THE  IRISH  BACHELOR 64 

TO   A   PLAIN   SWEETHEART 66 

THE    CONQUEST 67 

A  BOOK   NOT  "gIVABLE" 69 

DA   MUSICA   MAN 73 

THE  "  MODERATE  DRINKER  " 74 

DA   'mERICANA   girl 76 

FAINT  HEART 78 

BALLADE  OF  FAMILY   NAMES            ....  79 

DA  STYLEESHA  LADY 8I 

ALMOST 83 

CAREY,    THE    KILL-JOY    .  .  .  .  .  .85 

A  LESSON  IN  POLITICS 87 

MISTLETOE  AND  HOLLY    .  .  .  .  .  .89 

HANDICAPPED .          .  90 

A  FANCY  NICOTIAN * .  92 

UN    LAZZARONE 94 

BEDFELLOWS 96 

THOSE  DIRTY  LITTLE  FINGERS         ....  98 

DA  YOUNGA  *MERICAN IOC 

NIGHT  IN  bachelor's  HALL I02 

THE  INDOMITABLE  CELT IO4 

DA  FAMILY   MAN IO5 

DA    FIGHTIN'    IRISHMAN I06 

THE   SPOILED    CHILD I08 

DA  STYLEESHA  WIFE IIO 

THE  kettle's  song  OF  HOME         .  .  .  .Ill 

TO  THE  ATHEIST 112 

AT  HOME 114 

TO  AN   OLD   LOVER    .  .  .  .  .  .  .115 

TREASURE-TROVE II7 


CONTENTS  ix 


PAGE 

THE  LITTLE  BOY Il8 

all's  well 119 

to  a  violinist 121 

to  the  city  unbeautiful i24 

a  song  for  february 1 26 

the  birth-month i27 

a  song  for  june i28 

the  veteran  marching  alone  .       .       .       •   i3o 
the  birth  o'  tam  o'shanter      ....   i33 

summer's   SWAN-SONG    .  .  .  .  .  .    I39 

a  summer  idyl i4i 

"  ada  rehan  is  dead  " i44 

yesterday's  rain .146 

ballade  of  the  sea 1 48 

the  song  of  the  march  wind  .       .       .       .  i50 

darby  and  joan i5i 

the  village  poet 1 53 

a  song  to  one      .       .       ...       .       .       .  i55 

SONGS  OF  WEDLOCK 

THE  PERFECT  SOLITUDE 159 

WHEN    DAY    BEGINS 160 

TO    A    THRUSH 161 

THE  JOURNEY 166 

IN    WINTRY    WEATHER 167 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  FIREPLACE        ....  169 

THE    MOTHER I70 

A   SONG    FOR    JANUARY I7I 

INSPIRATION      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  172 

THE  SANCTUM 'I73 

PERENNIAL    MAY I74 

AT   THE   THRESHOLD I75 

HER    MUSIC 177 

THE    CITADEL I79 

A  SONG  FOR  AUGUST 181 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

LOVE  IS  ETERNAL 182 

THE   QUEEN*S    FLEETS 184 

THE  LIVING-ROOM 186 

A  SONG  FOR  NOVEMBER 1 88 

TO   THE   INCONSTANT 189 

THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE I90 

NOVEMBER .  I9I 

THE    man's    prayer          .          .          .          .          .          .  I93 

A  SONG  FOR  DECEMBER    ......  I94 


CANZONI 


DA  COMICA  MAN 

GIACOBBE  FINELLI  so  funny,  O!  My! 
By  tweestin'  hees  face  an'  by  weenkin' 
hees  eye 
He  maka  you  laugh  teell  you  theenk  you  weell 
die. 
He  don't  gotta  say  som'theeng;  all  he  ees  do 

Ees  maka  da  face  an',  how  moocha  you  try, 
You  no  can  help  laugh  w'en  he  lookin'  at  you — 
Giacobbe  Finelli  so  funny,  O!  My! 

I  deeg  een  da  tranch  weeth  Giacobbe  wan  day; 
Giacobbe  ees  toss  up  da  spadefuUa  clay. 
An'  beeg  Irish  boss  he  ees  gat  een  da  way! 
Da  boss  he  ees  look  at  Giacobbe  an'  swear 

So  bad  as  he  can,  but  Giacobbe,  so  sly. 
He  maka  pretand  he  no  see  he  was  dere — 
Giacobbe  Finelli  so  funny,  O!  My! 

But  w'en  da  boss  turn  an'  ees  starta  for  go, 
Giacobbe  look  up  an'  he  mak'  da  face — So! 
I  laugh  an'  I  laugh  lika  deesa — Ho!  ho! 

3 


CANZONI 


Da  boss  he  com'  back  an'  he  poncha  my  head, 
He  smasha  my  nose  an'  he  blacka  my  eye — 

I  no  can  help  laugh  eef  I  gona  be  dead. 
Giacobbe  Finelli  so  funny,  O!  My! 


CANZONI 


GOOD  MORNING 

DAY  dawns,  and  bids  the  blushing  sky 
"  Good  morning!  " 
The  flute- voiced  birds  take  up  the  cry: 

"  Good  morning!  " 
And  nearer  home,  beneath  the  eaves, 
The  gnarled  old  maple's  tender  leaves 
That  shivered  in  the  midnight  rain, 
Now  whisper  at  my  window-pane: 

"  Good  morning!  " 
The  genial  sun  peeps  o'er  the  hill 
And  laughs  across  my  window  sill. 
Eyes  quiver  imder  sleepy  lids — 
This  is  the  King  himself  who  bids 

"Good  morning!  " 

I  rise  and  ope  the  window  wide. 
The  sun-kissed  breezes  charge  and  ride 
Straight  through  the  breach  in  merry  rout. 
And  scale  the  walls  and  fairly  shout: 

"  Good  morning!  " 
They  make  me  captive  to  the  King, 
They  pluck  at  me  and  bid  me  sing 
Their  paean  to  the  Golden  Day, 
Whose  conquering  slogan  is  their  gay 

"Good  morning!  " 


CAN20NI 


They  frolic  here,  they  scamper  there, 
They  clutch  the  singing  birds  in  air, 
On  all  the  world  their  music  beats 
Until  the  captive  world  repeats: 

"  Good  morning!  " 
Heart  calls  to  heart.    The  surly  wight, 
Who  scorned  his  neighbor  yesternight, 
With  smiling  visage  stops  to  greet 
That  neighbor  in  the  busy  street: 

"  Good  morning!  " 

O!  joyous  day!    O!  smile  of  God, 
To  hearten  all  who  toil  and  plod; 
We  hail  thee,  Conqueror  and  King! 
We  hug  our  golden  chains  and  sing: 
"Good  morning!  '^ 


CANZONI 


CARLOTTA'S  INDECISION 

I  WOULD  lika  mooch  to  know 
Why  Carlotta  treat  me  so. 
Evra  time  I  ask  eef  she 
Ees  gon'  marry  weetha  me, 
First  she  smila,  den  she  frown, 
Den  she  look  me  up  an'  down, 
Den  she  shak'  her  head  an'  say: 
"  I  gon'  tal  you  Chrees'mas  Day." 

Once  w'en  we  are  out  for  walk 
An'  I  am  begin  to  talk, 
She  say:  "  Don'ta  speak  no  more. 
O!  com',  see  dees  jew'ler  store. 
My!  jus'  look  dat  di'mon'  reeng! 
Eet  ees  justa  sweetes'  theeng! 
Only  seexa-feefty,  see?  " 

Dat's  da  way  she  teasa  me, 
Findin'  theengs  for  talka  'bout 
Jus'  for  mak'  me  shut  my  mout'. 
Bimeby  w'en  she  turn  for  go 
I  say:  "  Com',  I  musta  know—" 
"01  "  she  stamp  her  foot  an'  say: 
"  I  gon'  tal  you  Chrees'mas  Day." 


CANZONI 


I  wouid  lika  mooch  to  know 
Why  Carlotta  treat  me  so. 
W'ata  for  she  always  say: 
"  I  gon'  tal  you  Chrees'mas  Day  "? 


CANZONI 


BALLADE  TO  THE  WOMEN 

THE  poets,  extolling  the  graces 
Of  sweet  femininity,  pay 
Particular  court,  in  most  cases. 
To  Phyllis  or  Phoebe  or  Fay. 
"  A  toast  to  the  ladies!  "  they  say — 
As  "  ladies  "  they  always  address  them — 

And  bid  us  bow  down  to  them.    Nay! 
We  sing  the  plain  "  women,"  God  bless  them! 

Though  light-o'-loves,  frail  as  the  laces 

And  satins  in  which  they  array 
The  charms  of  their  fofms  and  their  faces, 

Are  "  ladies  "  for  their  little  day. 

The  feet  of  such  idols  are  clay. 
Our  wives,  when  we  come  to  possess  them, 

Must  loom  to  us  larger  than  they. 
We  sing  the  plain  "  women,"  God  bless  them! 

Sweet  creatures  who  make  the  home-places 
As  cheerful  and  bright  as  they  may, 

Whose  feminine  beauty  embraces 
A  heart  to  illumine  the  way, 
Though  skies  may  be  ever  so  gray; 

Good  mothers,  whose  children  caress  them 
And  hail  them  as  chums  at  their  play — 

We  sing  the  plain  "  women,"  God  bless  them! 


10  CAN20NI 


ENVOY 

01  Queen,  teach  the  "  ladies/'  we  pray, 
Whenever  vain  notions  oppress  them. 

Though  idly  their  charms  we  survey. 
We  sing  the  plain  "  women,"  God  bless  them! 


CANZONI  II 


IN  THE  AUGUST  NIGHT 

THE  day  is  done,  with  all  the  heat 
That  swathed  the  swooning  city. 
The  dusk  that  falls  so  cool  and  sweet 
Is  doubly  sweet  with  pity. 

To  those  the  blazing  sun  oppressed, 
What  time  he  played  the  hector, 

The  night-wind  comes  from  out  the  west, 
A  Hebe  bearing  nectar. 

Impartially  she  gives  to  all 

A  blessed  draught  ecstatic; 
The  ennuye  in  pleasure's  hall, 

The  sick  child  in  the  attic. 

She  seeks  the  squalid  haunts  of  sin, 

With  gentle  self-abasement, 
She  steals  with  inspiration  in 

The  poet's  open  casement. 

I  watch  the  pensive  poet  there, 
Beside  his  window  dreaming. 

To  him  the  night,  so  calm  and  fair. 
With  rhapsodies  is  teeming. 


12  CANZONI 


Up  through  the  fields  of  twinkling  spheres 
His  raptured  soul  is  winging, 

And  in  his  fancy's  flight  he  hears 
The  very  heavens  singing. 

Sing,  poet!    Sing  the  night-wind's  song, 
And  weave  your  fancies  through  it; 

Some  heart,  world-weary,  in  the  throng 
Will  beat  responsive  to  it. 


CANZONI  13 


DA  BLUE  DEVIL 

SOMTIME  w'en  I  no  feela  good 
An'  beezaness  ees  flat, 
I  gat  so  blue  I  weesh  I  could 

Be  justa  dog  or  cat. 
W'en  evratheeng  ees  gona  wrong 

An'  I  mus'  feex  eet  right, 
I  gat  deesgust'  for  work  so  long 

An'  theenk  would  be  delight 
For  be  a  leetla  cat,  baycause 

Da  only  work  she  do 
Ees  wash  her  face  an'  leeck  her  paws, 

An'  after  dat  she  through. 
Eef  you  be  dog  you  jus'  can  go 

For  sleepin'  een  da  sun, 
An'  you  don't  gat  a  wife,  you  know, 

For  aska  you  for  mon'. 
Eet's  mak'  no  odds  how  you  behave 

Eef  you  are  animal; 
You  don't  gat  any  soul  to  save. 

An'  when  you  die,  dat's  all! 
O!  my,  how  easy  kind  of  life 

For  justa  nevva  mind. 
To  run  away  an'  leave  your  wife 

An*  evratheeng  bayhind! 


14  CANZONI 


Dees  ees  da  way  I  feela  w'en 

I'm  blue,  but,  alia  same, 
Wen  I  am  feel  all  right  agen 

Eet  mak'sa  me  ashame'. 
Wen  devil  gat  eenside  o'  me 

For  mak'  me  feel  like  dat, 
I  guess  I  would  not  even  be 

A  decen'  dog  or  cat. 


CANZONI  15 


FATHER  O'SHEA  AND  FATHER  McCREA 

YE  might  search  the  world's  ends, 
But  ye'd  find  no  such  friends 
As  Father  O'Shea  an'  Father  McCrea. 
Very  caustic  in  wit 

Was  Father  O'Shea, 
But  as  droll  every  bit 
Was  Father  McCrea; 
An'  O!  such  a  volley  0'  fun  they  were  pokin'. 

The  wan  at  the  other,  as  good  as  a  play, 
Wid  their  ready  replies  an'  their  innocint  jokin', 
When  Father  O'Shea  met  Father  McCrea. 

Now,  upon  a  March  Sunday  it  came  for  to  pass 

Good  Father  McCrea 
Preached  a  very  fine  sermon  an'  then,  afther 
Mass, 

Met  Father  O'Shea. 
"  'Twas  a  very  appropriate  sermon  for  Lent 

Ye  delivered  this  minute. 
For  the  season  o'  fastin'  'twas  very  well  meant — 
I  could  find  no  meat  in  it!  " 
Said  Father  O'Shea. 

Then,  quick  as  the  laughther  that  gleamed  in  his 
eye, 

Good  Father  McCrea 


i6  CANZONI 


Raised  a  finger  o'  protest  an*  made  his  reply 

To  Father  O'Shea. 
"  Faith,  I'll  have  to  be  workin'  a  miracle  next, 

To  comply  wid  your  wishes. 
Dare  you  ask  me  for  meat,  my  dear  sir,  when  the 
text 
Was  '  the  loaves  an'  the  fishes  7  " 
Said  Father  McCrea. 

Very  caustic  in  wit 

Was  Father  O'Shea, 
But  as  droll  every  bit 
Was  Father  McCrea; 
Though  ye'd  search  the  world's  ends 
Ye  would  find  no  such  friends 
As  Father  O'Shea  an'  Father  McCrea. 


CANZONI  17 


HEARTS  APART 

TO  count  the  days  until  we  twain 
May  read  each  other's  eyes  again, 
And  dwell  once  more  in  Arcady, 
Is  all  my  joy  away  from  thee — 
Is  all  my  joy  and  all  my  pain. 

When  leaden-footed  minutes  wane 
To  hours  that  burden  heart  and  brain, 

'Twere  but  a  useless  agony 
To  count  the  days, 
Did  thy  most  gracious  heart  not  deign 
To  bid  my  own  heart  entertain 

The  hope  of  better  things  to  be; 

Did  I  not  know  thy  constancy 
And  that,  until  we  meet  again, 
Two  count  the  days. 


i8  CANZONI 


BALLADE  OF  THOSE  PRESENT 

TO  the  papers  whose  trade  is  supplying 
The  news  in  a  gossipy  way, 
All  the  workaday  world  should  be  hieing, 
Its  compliments  grateful  to  pay. 
How  kind  to  the  public  are  they 
When  they  publish  our  names  in  their  pleasant 

Descriptions  of  ball  or  soiree 
As  "  among  the  most  prominent  present!  " 

When  we  sit  at  the  banquet  board,  trying 

To  tickle  our  palates  blase. 
Comes  a  thought  that  is  more  gratifying 

Than  all  the  Lucullan  array; 

More  sweet  than  the  sherry's  bouquet, 
Or  the  flavor  of  succulent  pheasant — 

The  thought  of  appearing  next  day 
As  "  among  the  most  prominent  present." 

Since  the  common  folk  simply  are  dying 

To  know  what  we  do  or  we  say. 
It  were  really  a  shame  our  denying 

To  them  all  the  pleasure  we  may. 

Then  the  news  let  the  papers  convey 
To  the  shopman,  mechanic  and  peasant. 

Noting  MS  at  the  dance  or  the  play 
As  "  among  the  most  prominent  present." 


CANZONI  19 


ENVOY 

St.  Peter,  receive  us,  we  pray, 

When  weVe  done  with  this  world  evanescent, 
Assigning  us  places  for  aye 

As  "  among  the  most  prominent  present." 


20  CANZONI 


LEETLA  HUMPY  JEEM 

DA  'Merican  boys  eesa  vera  bad  lot, 
Dey  steala  peanutta,  banan', 
An'  evratheeng  gooda  for  eatin'  I  got, 

An'  mak'  all  da  troubla  dey  can. 
I  gotta  be  keepin'  awak'  weeth  both  eye 

Ah'  watch  alia  time  for  a  treeck, 
An'  gotta  be  queecka  for  runnin'  an'  try 

To  spanka  deir  pants  weetha  steeck. 
Ees  wan  o'  dees  boys  dat  ees  call  "  Humpy  Jeem," 

An'  justa  wors'  wan  in  da  pack, 
But  how  am  I  gona  gat  madda  weeth  heem? 

He  gotta  da  hump  on  da  back. 

Ees  only  a  poor  leetla  keed  an'  so  weak. 

An'  I  am  so  beeg  an'  so  strong, 
I  no  can  gat  mad  an'  I  not  even  speak 

For  tal  heem  how  moocha  ees  wrong. 
Eet  maka  heem  laugha  baycause  eet  ees  fun 

For  reach  weeth  hees  theen  leetla  han' 
An'  grabbin'  a  coupla  peanutta  an'  run 

So  fas'  as  hees  skeenny  legs  can. 
So  always  I  maka  pretand  I  no  see 

How  moocha  peanutta  he  tak'. 
I  guess  I  would  like  som'  wan  do  dat  for  me 

Eef  I  gotta  hump  on  da  back. 


CANZONI  21 


Da  beeg  Irish  cop  ees  say:  "  Poor  leetla  Jeeml 

Ees  better  for  heem  if  he  croke." 
I  tal  you  eef  som'theeng  no  happen  to  heem 

I  guess  pretta  soon  I  be  broke. 
I  no  like  to  theenkin'  bad  luck,  but  0!  my! 

I  weeshin'  for  evra  one's  sak' 
Dey  soon  gat  an  angela  up  in  da  sky 

Dat  gotta  da  hump  on  da  back. 


22  CAN20NI 


IF  YOU  WERE  A  BOY 

IF  you  were  a  boy  this  morning, 
I  wonder  what  you  would  do? 
Was  ever  a  day  more  perfect, 

Was  ever  the  sky  more  blue? 
I'm  speaking  to  you,  grave  senior. 

I  noticed  you  as  you  went, 
Hot-footing  it  into  the  city. 

To  add  to  your  cent,  per  cent. 
I  noticed  your  sober  manner. 

Your  very  important  looks. 
And  I  noticed  your  boy  beside  you. 

The  schoolboy  with  his  books. 
I  saw — and  you  saw — where  the  river 

Sweeps  down  to  the  "  swimmin'-hole," 
Another  boy  playing  "  hookey  " — 

A  boy  with  a  fishing-pole. 

If  you  were  a  boy  this  morning, 

I  wonder  what  you  would  do? 
I  saw  you  stooping  to  whisper 

A  word  to  the  boy  with  you. 
It  seemed  to  me  then  you  told  him 

That  the  truant  boy  was  a  fool. 
That  nothing  ripens  manhood 

Like  the  moments  spent  in  school. 


CANZONI  23 


With  the  fresh  blue  sky  above  you 

And  the  green  fields  uiider  it, 
How  dare  you  utter  such  nonsense! 

0!  liar  and  hypocrite? 
If  you  were  a  boy  this  morning, 

A  boy  with  a  heart  and  soul, 
You'd  be,  in  spite  of  a  licking. 

The  boy  with  the  fishing-pole. 


24  CANZONI 


A  NEW  PATRIOT 

EES  no  so  hard  for  Dago  man 
To  be  a  gooda  'Merican. 
Too  dumb,  too  slow,  you  theenka  me, 
But  I  am  sharpa  'nough  for  see 
Da  firsta  theeng  dat  you  mus'  know 
Ees  how  to  speak  da  Inglaice,  so 
Dat  you  can  wave  your  hat  an'  say: 
"Da  redda,  whita,  blue!    Hooray!" 

Eef  you  are  smarta  'Merican 
You  try  for  skeen  som'  udder  man, 
Baycause  you  know  dat  he  weell  do 
Da  sama  kinda  treecks  weeth  you. 
But  you  are  good  as  heem  an'  he 
Ees  jus'  so  good  as  you  an'  me. 
So  long  we  all  stan'  up  an'  say: 
"  Da  redda,  whita,  blue!    Hooray!  " 

For  land  dat  I  was  leevin'  een 

Da  flag  ees  redda,  whita,  green. 

So  alia  w'at  I  gotta  do 

Ees  jus'  forgat  da  green  for  blue. 

I  skeen  you  eef  I  gatta  chance, 

But  dat  ees  mak'  no  deeferance. 

I  gooda  'Merican,  an'  say: 

"Da  redda,  whita,  blue!     Hooray!" 


CANZONI  25 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE 

THERE'S  lazy  clouds  a-driftin' 
In  the  lazy  sky  o'  June, 
An'  Nature's  just  in  keepin' 

With  this  lazy  afternoon. 
I've  strolled  out  through  the  meaders 

To  this  pleasant  little  nook, 
Anf  I'm  loafin'  in  the  shadders. 

An'  a-listenin'  to  the  brook. 
But  I  ain't  a  bit  contented — 

Not  a  bit,  an'  that's  a  fac' — 
For  I  can't  help  a-thinkin' 

Of  the  long  walk  back. 

The  little  brook's  a-singin' 

Kinder  lazy-like  an'  low. 
An'  it's  mighty  cool  an'  restin' 

Where  its  crystal  waters  flow. 
An'  its  singin'  charms  a  feller, 

An'  it  seems  ter  say  to  him 
As  he's  layin'  nigh  a-dozin': 

"  Don't  yer  wanter  take  a  swim?  " 
Now  there's  nothin'  I  like  better 

Than  to  take  a  swim,  but  then 
There's  the  trouble  of  a-puttin' 

On  yer  clothes  again. 


26  CANZONI 


A  DIXIE  LULLABY 

Ol   DE  sun  quit  a-shinin'  fo'  dis  arternoon, 
•       De  possum  in  de  gum-tree  mighty  still, 
An'  de  old  San'-Man  jump  off  f'um  de  moon 

Wen  hit  done  come  obah  de  hill. 
An'  he  come  erlong  totin'  a  baig  full  o'  san' 

Fo'  ter  frow  inter  pickaninnies'  eyes, 
An'  he  teck  dem  erway  to  de  sweet  slumber-Ian' 
Fo'  ter  stay  'twell  de  nex'  sun-rise. 

So  g'long  wif  de  San'-Man,  deah, 

De  good  Lawd  keep 

Yo'  w'ile  yo'  sleep, 
An'  yo'  mammy'll  'wait  yo'  heah. . 

O!  he'll  teck  yo'  up  on  a  bright  moon-ray 

An'  he'll  rock  yo'  on  a  cloud  in  de  skies. 
An'  he'll  keep  yo'  dar  'twell  de  break  o'  day, 

So,  mah  honey,  jes'  close  yo'  eyes; 
'Less  de  moon  go  down  in  de  far-off  west, 

An'  outer  de  dahk  swamp-Ian' 
De  bad  Boogy-Man  come  out  ob  he  nest 

An'  skeer  off  de  good  San'-Man. 

So  g'long  wif  de  San'-Man,  deah, 

De  good  Lawd  keep 

Yo'  w'ile  yo'  sleep. 
An'  yo'  mammy'll  'wait  yo'  heah. 


CANZONI  27 


DA  GREATA  STRONGA  MAN 

YOU  oughta  see  my  Uncla  Joe 
Wen  he  ees  gatta  mad. 
He  ees  da  strongest  man  I  know 

Wen  som'  wan  treat  heem  bad. 
Hees  eye  eet  flash  like  blazin'  coal, 

An'  w'en  he  ope  hees  mout' 
He  growla  like  you  theenk  hees  soul 

Ees  turna  eenside  out. 
He  eesa  gat  so  stronga  den 

An'  swell  so  big  an'  fat, 
Eet  gona  taka  seexa  men 

For  justa  hold  hees  hat. 

You  oughta  see  my  Uncla  Joe 

Wen  he  ees  mad  weeth  you. 
You  bat  my  life!  den  you  will  know 

I  eesa  speaka  true. 
He  gat  so  strong  eenside  of  heem 

Eet  mak'  your  hearta  freeze. 
An'  eef  he  looka  at  som'  cream 

Eet  turna  eento  cheese. 
Den  you  weell  run,  you  bat  my  life! 

So  fast  as  you  can  go. 
An'  throw  away  your  gun  or  knife. 

Ha!  strong  man,  Uncla  Joe. 


28  CANZONI 


You  oughta  see  my  Uncla  Joe! 

Eet  w'at  you  call  "  surprise." 
Las'  night  beeg  Irish  ponch  heem  so 

Eet  close  up  bot'  hees  eyes. 
O!  my!  he  eesa  looka  bad; 

Mus'  be  ees  som'theeng  wrong, 
Baycause  w'en  Uncla  Joe  ees  mad 

He  always  been  so  strong. 
I  guess  dees  Irish  heet  his  blow 

So  queecka  an'  so  rough 
He  no  geeve  time  to  Uncla  Joe 

For  gatta  mad  enough. 


C  A  N  Z  O  N  I  29 


THE  " OUCHES " 

THE  "  Ouches  "  is  the  queerest  crew 
On  earth,  or  an5nvhere. 
They  aPays  live  inside  o'  you 

An'  you  don't  know  they're  there. 
For  jist  as  long  as  you  are  nice 

An'  good  as  you  kin  be 
They'll  stay  as  quiet  an'  still  as  mice, 

Fur  they're  asleep,  ye  see. 
But  sometimes  when  you  git  a  bump 

'At  makes  you  kind  o'  mad. 
It  wakes  an  Ouch!  an'  out  he'll  jump, 

An'  'at's  a  sign  you're  bad. 

Most  Ouches  makes  your  throat  their  home, 

Or,  leastways,  one  appears 
Right  there  when  mother  starts  to  comb 

Your  hair  or  wash  your  ears. 
An'  funny  thing  about  'em,  too. 

My  mother  tells  about. 
An  Ouch  can't  do  no  harm  in  you 

If  you  don't  let  it  out. 
So  if  you  really  truly  care 

To  be  the  boy  you  should, 
Jist  shut  your  mouth  an'  keep  'em  there. 

An'  'at's  a  sign  you're  good. 


30  CANZONI 


w 


FATHER  DAN  O'MALLEY 

HIN  Father  Dan  O'Malley  came  as  curate 
to  St.  Ann's, 
(There  was  work  in  Dublin  Alley  layin^  ready  to 

his  han's. 
Aye!  'twas  work  o'  sich  a  nature  that  no  common 

man  could  do, 
Fur,  indade,  the  only  t'acher  that  the  Alley  gos- 
soons knew 
Was  the  Divil  that  was  lurkin'  in  the  badness  of 

their  hearts. 
And  it's  never  aisy  wurkin'  fur  to  strive  agin  his 

arts. 
But  although  he's  cute,  fur,  sure,  it  is  the  Divil's 

trade  to  schame, 
Ye  can  trust  an  Irish  curate  fur  to  bate  him  at  his 

game. 
There  was  little  dilly-dally  in  the  layin'  out  of 

plans 
Whin  Father  Dan  O'Malley  came  as  curate  to 

St.  Ann's. 

Now,  the  trouble  jisht  was  layin'  in  the  fact  that 
as  a  rule 


CANZONI  31 


The  gossoons  thought  more  of  playin'  than  of 

goin'  to  Sunda'  school. 
Ev'ry  plisant  Sunda'  mornin',  faith,  ye'd  find  thim 

at  their  game, 
Nor  could  any  threat  or  warnin'  make  thim  feel  a 

sinse  0'  shame. 
An'  of  all  the  little  divils  that  desp'iled  the  holy 

day, 
The  ringleader  of  their  rivvels  was  that  rascal, 

Paddy  Shea. 
He  could  set  a  top  a-spinnin'  till  ye'd  think 

'twould  never  stop. 
An'  the  marbles  he  was  winnin'  would  have  aisy 

stocked  a  shop. 
Not  a  soul  in  Dublin  Alley  'd  won  a  vict'ry  from 

his  ban's 
Till  Father  Dan  O'Malley  came  as  curate  to  St. 

Ann's. 


Father  Dan  was  big  an'  jolly,  wid  a  heart  that 

filled  his  chist. 
An'  a  smile  that  it  was  folly  fur  ye  tryin'  to  resist. 
Well,  it  took  a  bare  half-hour  of  one  Sunda'  morn 

in  May 
Fur  to  dimonstrate  his  power  over  roguish  Paddy 

Shea. 


32  CANZONI 


Though  the  bells  had  rung  their  rally  to  the 

Sunda'  school,  the  hall 
Showed  no  lad  of  Dublin  Alley  had  appeared  at 

all,  at  all. 
Father  Dan  wint  out  a-gunnin'  fur  the  rogues 

that  stayed  away, 
An'  the  rascals  started  runnin',  but  he  captured 

Paddy  Shea. 
Thin  it  was  that  Dublin  Alley  passed  from  out  the 

Divil's  ban's, 
Fur  Father  Dan  O'Malley  now  was  curate  at  St. 

Ann's. 

"Now,  me  boy,"  sez  he  to  Paddy,  "  you're  the 

champeen  player  here. 
So  you'll  play  wid  me,  me  laddie,  jisht  to  make 

yer  title  clear; 
Is  it  marbles  ye've  been  playin'?     Well,  we'll 

start  again  to  play, 
But  you'll  bend  yer  knees  to  prayin'  whin  I've 

licked  ye,  Paddy  Shea. 
Come  along,  you  rogue!     Your  luck'll  not  avail 

ye  now  to  win. 
Whisht!     More  power  to  me  knuckle,  'tis  the 

Church's  work  it's  in." 
From  the  very  first  beginnin'  Father  Dan  out- 
played the  lad, 


CANZONI  33 


An*  he  wasn't  long  in  winnin'  ev'ry  marble  that 

he  had. 
After  that  the  Dublin  Alley  lads  was  putty  in 

the  ban's 
Of  Father  Dan  O'Malley,  who  is  curate  at  St. 

Ann's. 

So  the  Sunda'  school  is  crowded  to  the  doors  this 

blessed  day, 
Fur  the  lads  had  lost  their  marbles  to  the  skill  of 

Paddy  Shea, 
An'  the  leader  o'  the  Alley  has  in  turn  throwed  up 

his  ban's 
To  Father  Dan  O'Malley,  who  is  curate  at  St. 

Ann's. 


34  CANZONI 


CONTENT 

ALONG  about  this  time  o'  year, 
.    The  while  I  set  a-blinkin' 
In  the  warm  sunshine  here, 

I  always  git  to  thinkin' 
The  old  farm  ain't  so  bad  a  place, 

But  what  I  feel  some  pity 
Fur  the  dumb  fools  thet's  in  the  race 

Fur  gold  down  in  the  city. 
You  don't  ketch  me  a-praying  God 

To  better  my  position. 
I  only  want  my  fishin'-rod 

An'  time  to  go  a-fishin'. 
I  got  a  shirt,  a  pair  o'  pants, 

Coat,  hat,  an'  appetite; 
I  know  the  fish,  an'  all  their  ha'nts 

An'  when  they're  like  to  bite. 
An'  all  the  clo'es  I  want  is  what 

Will  keep  off  chill  an'  shiver, 
While  I'm  a-settin'  in  this  spot — 

The  best  along  the  river. 
Ketch  me  a-combin'  of  my  hair 

An'  wearin'  cuffs  an'  collars! 
I  wouldn't  be  a  millionaire 

Fur  seven  hundred  dollars! 


CANZONI  35 


W'AT'SA  USE? 

W'AT'SA  use  for  gattin'  mad 
Jus'  baycause  you  feela  bad? 
You  gon'  feela  worse  an'  worse 
Eef  you  gona  stop  an'  curse 
Evra  time  ees  som'theeng  wrong. 
You  no  gotta  leeve  so  long. 
Wan,  two,  free,  four  year,  bimeby, 
Mebbe  so  you  gona  die. 
So  ees  best  from  day  to  day 
Maka  sunshine  weetha  hay. 
Don't  be  gattin'  madda  while 
You  can  hava  time  to  smile. 
W'at'sa  use? 

Padre  Smeeth  he  tal  me,  too, 
Justa  like  I  tal  to  you. 
Wan  day  he  ees  say,  "  Hallo! 
W'at  ees  mak'  you  growla  so? 
Evra  time  you  gatta  mad 
Eet  ees  mak'  Diablo  glad. 
Justa  laugh  an'  don'ta  care, 
Den  you  mak'  Diablo  swear." 
Smila  now  an'  den  bimeby 


36  CANZONI 


You  can  smila  w'en  you  die. 
Growla  now  an'  you  weell  yal 
Weeth  Diablo  down  een — wal 
W'at'sa  use? 


CANZONI  37 


KISS  HER 

SAY,  young  man!  if  youVe  a  wife, 
Kiss  her. 
Every  morning  of  your  life. 

Kiss  her. 
Every  evening  when  the  sun 
Marks  your  day  of  labor  done. 
Get  you  homeward  on  the  run — 
Kiss  her! 

Even  though  you're  feeling  bad, 

Kiss  her. 
If  she's  out  of  sorts  and  sad, 

Kiss  her. 
Act  as  if  you  meant  it,  too; 
Let  the  whole  true  heart  of  you 
Speak  its  ardor  when  you  do 

Kiss  her. 

If  you  think  it's  "  soft,"  you're  wrong. 

Kiss  her. 
Love  like  this  will  make  you  strong. 

Kiss  her. 
If  you'd  strike  with  telling  force 
At  the  Evil  of  Divorce, 
Just  adopt  this  simple  course: 

Kiss  her. 


38  CANZONI 


DEAR  UNSELFISH  DAN 

MOST  every  one  that  knowed  our  Dan 
Agreed  he  was  the  kindest  man 
They  ever  see.    He  had  the  knack 
Of  takin^  on  his  own  broad  back 
The  burdens  an'  the  slaps  and  pokes 
Belonged  by  rights  to  other  folks. 
If  any  one  was  in  distress 
An'  went  to  Dan,  he'd  say:  "  I  guess 
We'll  pull  you  out  all  right;  let's  see, 
Suppose  you  leave  all  that  to  me." 

Was  nothin'  finer  than  the  way 
He  cared  for  poor  old  Uncle  Jay, 
Who  was  the  most  unlucky  han' 
For  havin'  trouble  with  his  Ian' 
'Bout  taxes,  or  the  early  spring 
Plowin',  or  some  other  thing 
That  plumb  upsot  the  poor  old  man. 
Then,  in  the  nick  o'  time,  our  Dan 
Steps  in,  and  sez,  "  Don't  fret,"  sez  he, 
"  Suppose  you  leave  all  that  to  me." 

It  got  to  be  that  Uncle  Jay 
He  couldn't  git  along  no  way 
Without  our  Dan;  an'  our  Dan  he 


CANZONI  39 


Jest  cared  fur  him  unselfishly. 
An'  when  the  old  man  come  to  die 
Our  Dan,  o'  course,  was  right  close  by. 
Sez  Uncle  Jay:  "  I'm  worrit,  Dan, 
'Bout  what's  to  come  of  all  my  Ian' 
An'  all  my  money  out  at  loan, 
An'  in  the  bank,  when  I  am  gone." 
Then  Dan,  he  ups  an'  sez,  sez  he: 
"  Suppose  you  leave  all  that  to  me." 


40  CANZONI 


HER  ANSWER 

"  y^EAR  Nell,"  he  wrote,  "  these  violets 
Jl/     I've  made  so  bold  to  send  to  you 

Shall  be  my  mute  ambassadors; 
And  each  shall  tell  how  deep  and  true 

The  sender's  love  is,  craving  yours 

For  him.    What  messengers  more  meet? 

Are  they  not  typical  of  you, 
They  are  so  sweet?  " 

"  Dear  Jack,"  she  wrote,  "  your  violets 
Have  just  this  moment  been  received. 

Their  message  took  me  by  surprise, 
'Twas  something  scarce  to  be  believed. 

I  send  my  answer  back  with  them; 
What  fitter  messengers  for  you? 

So  typical  of  how  you'll  feel — 
They  are  so  blue!  " 


CANZONI  41 


D 


KITTY'S  GRADUATION 

,/ 

UBLIN  ALLEY  jisht  was  crazy,  jubilation 
was  the  rule, 
Chewsday  week  whin  Kitty  Casey  won  the  honors 

at  the  school. 
Sure,  the  neighbors  had  been  waitin',  all  impa- 
tient of  delay. 
For  to  see  her  graduating  on  that  most  important 

day. 
Eddication  is  a  power,  an*  we  owned  wid  one 

accord 
Casey's  girl's  the  sweetest  flower  ever  blossomed 

in  the  ward. 
Whin,  wid  dress  white  as  the  daisy,  but  wid 

cheeks  that  shamed  the  rose. 
We  beheld  wee  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation 

clo'es. 

Now,  this  Casey  loved  his  daughther  in  a  most  in- 
dulgent way. 

An'  he  spent  his  gold  like  wather  for  her  grad- 
uation day. 

Sich  a  dale  of  great  preparin'!  Sure,  ye'd  think 
she  was  a  bride; 

Sorra  hair  was  Casey  carin'  for  a  blessed  thing 
beside. 


42  CANZONI 


For  whin  Casey  once  comminces,  faith,  he  niver 

stops  at  all, 
An^  he  dressed  her  like  a  princess  at  a  Coronation 

Ball. 
An'  'twas  Madame  Brigette  Tracy  for  dressmaker 

that  he  chose. 
For  to  fit  out  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation 

clones. 


Of  dressmakers,  now,  the  oddest  was  this  one 

that  Casey'd  got. 
For  her  bill-heads  called  her  "  Modiste,"  though 

the  prices  there  did  not. 
"  But,''  sez  Casey,  "  I  can  stan'  it  for  to  pay  a 

few  more  cints, 
So  jisht  go  ahead  an'  plan  it,  ma'am,  raygardless 

of  ixpinse." 
"Bong  Moonseer,"  sez  she,  "I'll    try  it  if  she 

have  the  *  savoir  fair.'  " 
"  As  fur  that,"  sez  Casey,  "  buy  it,  wid  the  other 

things  she'll  wear." 
So  ye  see  the  man  was  crazy  for  to  get  the  best 

that  goes 
For  his  little  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation 

clo'es. 


CANZONI  43 


All  the  women  jisht  were  itchin'  for  to  see  her 
gettin'  dressed, 

Some  were  crowded  in  the  kitchen  an'  the  stair- 
way, while  the  rest, 

The  most  favored  ones,  wint  rushin'  to  the  livin' 
room  above, 

Where  stood  Mrs.  Casey  blushin'  wid  a  mother's 
pride  an'  love. 

"  Oh!  "  sez  she,  "  'twould  be  a  pity  if  I  couldn't 
schame  an'  plan 

So  that  Kitty'd  look  as  pritty  as  Mag  Ryan's 
Mary  Ann." 

"  Tut!  ye  needn't  be  onaisy,"  sez  a  neighbor. 
"  Goodness  knows. 

There'll  be  none  like  Kitty  Casey  in  her  grad- 
uation clo'es." 

An'  there's  really  no  denyin',  whin  they  marched 

into  the  hall 
Kitty  Casey  pushed  the  Ryan  girl  complately  to 

the  wall. 
Whin  she  made  her  prize  oration  an'  they  gave 

her  her  degree, 
There  was  sich  a  dimonstration  as  ye'll  niver  live 

to  see, 
For  the  men  from  Dublin  Alley  voiced  their  feel- 
in's  in  a  cheer 


44  CANZONI 


Like  they  utther  whin  they  rally  in  a  Dimmy- 

cratic  year, 
An^  of  Casey's  proudest  days  he  counts  that  best 

of  all  he  knows 
Which  beheld  his  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation 

clo'es. 


CANZONI  45 


/    AN  ITALIAN  KING 

1AM  so  good  for  evratheeng 
I  oughta  be  electa  Keeng! 
Ees  no  somebody  else  at  all 
So  strong  like  me,  so  beeg,  so  tall, 
An'  no  som'body  else  can  do 
So  greata  theengs  like  I  can,  too. 
How  mooch  you  try  you  no  can  be 
So  fina  bigga  man  like  me. 
You  bat  my  life!  I  oughta  gat 
A  crown  for  wear  eenside  my  hat, 
An*  makin'  all  da  style  I  can, 
Baycause  I  am  so  granda  man. 
All  dees  ees  true.    Eh?  how  I  know? 
My  leetla  boy  he  tal  me  so. 

You  maka  fun  weeth  me  an'  tease. 
An'  call  me  "  Dago  "  eef  you  please; 
An'  mebbe  so  I  what  you  call 
"  No  good  for  anytheeng  at  all," 
An'  you  weell  theenk  you  speaka  true 
Baycause  eet  looka  so  to  you. 
Wal,  mebbe  som'  time  you  are  right, 
But  not  w'en  I  gat  home  at  night. 


46  CANZONI 


Ha!  dat'sa  time  dat  I  am  Keeng 
An'  I  am  good  for  evratheeng! 
I  know;  baycause  Patricio, 
My  leetla  boy,  he  tal  me  so. 


CANZONI  47 


DA  PRITTA  LADY 

EES  playnta  reecha  ladies  com' 
By  dees  peanutta-stan'; 
I  like  to  watcha  dem,  for  som' 

Ees  looka  justa  gran'. 
Dey  got  so  fina  hat  an'  dress, 

An'  evratheeng  so  clean, 
Most  any  Keeng  be  proud,  I  guess, 

For  calla  one  hees  Queen. 
Beeg  Irish  cop  say:  "  Looka  dat! 

I  tal  you  she's  a  peach! 
Dat's  kinda  wife  a  man  can  gat 

Eef  he  ees  only  reech." 
I  theenk  of  Angela,  my  wife. 

An'  weesha:  "My,  O!  my, 
Eef  she  like  dat,  you  bat  my  life, 

I  would  be  satisfi'." 

But  den  I  theenk,  su'pose  my  wife 

Was  beautiful  like  dees; 
I  would  be  frighten  of  my  life 

To  aska  her  for  keess. 
I  would  be  scare'  to  hug  her  so 

Like  w'at  I  always  do 
To  Angela,  baycause,  you  know, 

She  mebbe  bust  in  two. 


48  CANZONI 


Baysides,  my  Angela  she  gat 

My  baby  at  her  breas'; 
Eet  mighta  not  be  lika  dat 

Eef  she  was  reech,  I  guess. 
No  reecha  lady  coulda  be 

So  pritta  eef  she  try, 
Like  Angela  ees  look  to  me, 

So  I  am  satisf;^ 


CANZONI  49 


I 


A  FROSTY  MORNING 

LOVE  these  frosty  mornings, 
When  all  the  outer  air 


Is  tingling  with  a  freshness 
And  vim  beyond  compare. 


The  north-wind  in  the  tree-tops 
Proclaims  the  coming  dawn, 

And  sends  the  crisp  leaves  rattling 
Across  the  frozen  lawn. 

From  some  adjacent  farmyard 

A  watchful  chanticleer, 
With  raucous,  joyous  crowing 

Assails  the  atmosphere. 

Then,  nearer  home,  a  watchdog, 
Awakened  from  his  sleep, 

Gives  voice  to  his  resentment 
In  tones  prolonged  and  deep. 

A  wagon,  bound  for  market, 
Goes  creaking  down  the  road. 

I  hear  the  axles  groaning 
Beneath  the  heavy  load. 


50  CANZONI 


The  light  grows  at  my  window, 

And  on  the  pane,  I  see, 
Jack  Frost  has  limned  a  picture 

Of  silvery  tracery. 

Now,  from  the  servants'  stairway, 
Slow  feet  descend  the  hall; 

And  then  a  kitchen  shutter 
Bangs  out  against  the  wall. 

I  love,  these  frosty  mornings, 
To  note  these  things,  and  then — 

To  draw  the  bed-clothes  closer. 
And  go  to  sleep  again. 


CANZONI  51 


TO  THE  GROWLER 

BE  patient!     Be  a  Christian  and  forbear 
To  objurgate  the  Weather-man  and  swear 
Because  the  sting  of  winter's  in  the  air. 

Do  you  remember 
Those  days  in  June,  a  few  short  months  ago, 
Whose  scorching  heat  oppressed  and  baked  you 

so, 
And  made  you  yearn  the  blest  relief  to  know 

Of  cool  September? 
And  when  September  came  and  in  its  train 
Brought  days  of  frost  and  days  of  sodden  rain. 
Good  gracious!    how  you  kicked  and  growled 
again! 

Do  you  remember? 

Those  summer  days  will  soon  have  come  once 

more, 
And  you'll  forget  how  bitterly  you  swore 
At  all  the  winter  weather  gone  before. 

Will  you  remember. 
When  you  are  sweltering  in  mid- July, 
The  flakes,  frost-feathered,  that  were  wont  to  fly 
From  out  the  windy  reaches  of  the  sky. 
This  past  December? 


52  CANZONI 


Meantime,  if  you  should  die  and  you  should  get 
Your  just  desserts,  with  O!  what  vain  regret, 
These  winter  days  (because  they're  cold  and  wet) 
You  will  remember! 


CANZONI  53 


THE  NATIONAL  ENCAMPMENT 

HE^S  a-comin',  he's  a-comin'! 
An'  he  sets  the  town  a-buzz. 
Though  they  ain't  as  many  of  'im 

As  what  they  useter  wuz. 
He's  a-growin'  more  important 
Jest  because  he's  dyin'  out. 
The  G.  A.  R.'s  a-comin', 
"  Hats  off!  "  along  the  rout'. 

He's  a-comin',  he's  a-comin'! 

An'  a  grateful  people  tries 
To  bring  the  light  o'  gladness 

To  the  old-time  fighter's  eyes. 
So  the  old  flag  waves  above  'im, 

An'  he  hears  the  people  shout: 
"  The  G.  A.  R.'s  a-comin'. 

Hats  off  along  the  rout'!  " 

He's  a-marchin',  he's  a-marchin'! 

There's  a  reminiscent  touch 
Of  his  bearin'  in  the  "  Sixties  " 

In  the  way  he  slings  his  crutch, 
As  he  marches  ever  onward 

To  the  last  Great  Muster-out. 
The  G.  A.  R.'s  a-comin'! 

"  Hats  off!  "  along  the  rout'. 


54  CANZONI 


AT  CASTLE  GARDEN 

HERE'S  a  whole  ship-load  of  sweet  femi- 
ninity— 

Girls  of  the  Sod! 
Faith!  but  I'm  glad  to  be  in  the  vicinity. 

Here  with  me  hod, 
Mortar  and  bricks  have  engaged  me  this  solid 

day. 
O!  but  I  wish  I  was  dressed  fur  a  holiday! 
Wouldn't  I  show  ye  the  taste  of  a  jolly  day, 
Girls  of  the  Sod? 

Let  me  stand  by  in  this  workaday  guise  of  mine, 

Girls  of  the  Sod, 
O!  but  the  sight  of  ye  moistens  these  eyes  of  mine. 

Isn't  it  odd? 
Maybe  the  view  of  yer  solemn  processional 
Out  of  the  ship,  as  it  were  a  confessional. 
Carries  my  heart  in  a  tour  retrogressional 

Back  to  the  Sod. 

O!  I  am  thinkin'  'twas  jisht  a  mistake  of  ye 

L'avin'  the  Sod. 
All  that  is  best  ye  have  left  in  the  wake  of  ye, 

There  where  ye  trod 
Fields  that  were  full  of  the  sweetness  that's  bless- 
in'  ye 


CANZONI  55 


Fresh  with  the  breezes  so  fond  of  caressin'  ye — 
O!  but  there's  many  a  heart  will  be  missin'  ye, 
Girls  of  the  Sod! 

There  ye  reaped  joy  if  ye  only  were  knowin'  it, 

Here  'twill  be  odd 
If  what  ye're  reapin'  will  pay  ye  fur  sowin'  it. 

Girls  of  the  Sod. 
Arrah!    No  wonder  ye're  lookin'  so  serious. 
This  is  a  country  to  make  ye  delirious, 
Toilin'  an'  moilin'  to  serve  the  imperious 

Mammon,  its  god. 

Listen  to  me  an'  I'll  have  the  whole  crowd  of  ye 

Back  to  the  Sod, 
Back  to  the  valleys  that  love  and  are  proud  of  ye. 

Girls  of  the  Sod! 
Ireland  needs  ye,  her  love  that  has  girt  ye  there 
Yearns  fur  ye  still  an'  will  I'ave  nothin'  hurt  ye 

there. 
Gold  isn't  counted  like  goodness  and  virtue  there, 

Thanks  be  to  God! 

Still  if  there's  wan  of  ye  bent  upon  tarryin', 

Girls  of  the  Sod, 
Did  I  not  mintion  the  merits  o'  marryin' 

I'd  be  a  clod. 


56  CANZONI 


So  if  ye're  needin'  the  love  of  a  merry  man, 
Merry  but  sober,  a  dacint  young  Kerry  man. 
Faith,  I  could  whishper  the  name  of  the  very 
man — 

Give  me  a  nod! 


CANZONI  57 


THE  WISDOM  OF  THE  SPARROWS 

TWAS  a  city  sparrow,  wise  and  debonair, 
Idly  loafing  through  the  country  with  his 
mate. 
Stupid  country  birds  were  building  everywhere, 
For  the  nesting-time  was  growing  very  late, 
But  the  sparrow,  with  his  lady. 
In  a  tree-top,  cool  and  shady, 
Gazed  with  scorn  upon  the  work  and  twittered: 
"  Stuff!  " 

To  his  mate  he  chirruped  shrilly: 
"  Isn't  all  this  labor  silly. 
When  a  roosting-place  at  night  is  quite  enough?  " 

Twas  a  motherly  old  robin,  near  at  hand, 

Who  was  busy  at  her  building  with  the  rest, 
And  she  turned  upon  the  sparrows  to  demand 
How  they  meant  to  hatch  their  eggs  without  a 
nest. 

"  Such  impertinence!  "  half  sadly 
Said  the  sparrow;  "  and  yet  gladly 
1*11  impart  to  you  the  knowledge  that  you  beg." 
Then,  with  haughty  condescension. 
He  remarked:  "  I  need  but  mention 
That  it's  possible  to  obviate  the  egg." 


58  CANZONI 


Twas  a  congress  of  the  birds  of  every  sort, 
All  indignantly  assembled  to  protest 

Their  displeasure,  when  the  robin  made  report 
Of  the  threatened  abolition  of  the  nest; 
And  they  spoke  of  it  as  "  awful!  " 
"  Selfish,"  "  scandalous,"  "  unlawful," 

And  they  prophesied  "  the  country's  speedy  fall." 
But  the  sparrows,  quite  disdaining 
All  this  ignorant  complaining. 

Simply  went  their  way,  unmindful  of  it  all. 

'Twas  a  sage  old  owl,  a  very  solemn  bird, 
Sat  and  listened  while  his  feathered  fellows 
fought. 
Never  once  he  oped  his  mouth  to  say  a  word, 
But  he  did  a  lot  of  thinking — and  he  thought: 
"  So  the  sparrows  think  it  best 
To  abolish  eggs  and  nest. 
Well,  perhaps  the  wisdom  isn't  theirs  at  all, 
But  a  plan  of  good  Dame  Nature's 
To  eliminate  such  creatures. 
Let  them  have  their  way;   the  loss  is  mighty 
small." 


CANZONI  59 


THE  MODEST  COLLEEN 

IF  I  should  sing  of  "  Mary  " 
Don't  think  that  that's  her  name. 
My  colleen  bawn's  conthrary 
And  doesn't  care  for  fame. 
She  sez  'twould  make  her  fidget 

To  see  her  name  in  print, 
So  I  can't  sing  of  — Murther! 
I  nearly  gev  a  hint! 

She  likes  to  watch  me  writin' 

A  sonnet  to  her  eyes, 
In  poethry  recitin' 

The  love  that  in  me  lies, 
But  holds  one  rosy  digit, 

Resthrainin'  of  me  pen, 
For  fear  I'll  mintion — Musha! 

I  almost  wrote  it  then. 

So  whin  the  names  of  Nora, 

An'  Nell  an'  Kate,  betimes. 
Or  Mary,  Rose  or  Dora 

Are  mintioned  in  me  rhymes. 
They  mean  that  modest  midget. 

That  charmin'  little  elf. 
Whose  name  is — O!  I'll  I'ave  ye 

To  guess  her  name  yerself . 


6o  CANZONI 


THE  OLD  PARISHIONER 

THE  graybeard  glories  in  the  past 
And  prates  of  "  good  old  days." 
These  times  are  out  of  joint,  he  growls, 

And  sneers  at  modern  ways. 
He  shakes  his  head  at  every  move 

That's  up-to-date  and  new, 
And  everything  you  do  is  just 

The  thing  you  shouldn't  do. 
It's:  "  Mercy  save  us!    Look  at  that! 

We're  slidin'  back,  I  fear. 
The  parish  isn't  what  it  was 

Whin  Father  Mack  was  here." 

"  The  weddin's  now  are  not  as  fine 

As  weddin's  used  to  be, 
An',  faith,  they're  not  so  numerous 

At  all,  at  all,"  says  he.       ♦ 
"  Then,  christ'nin's,  too,  were  plentiful 

An'  carried  out  wid  style; 
'Twould  warm  your  heart  to  see  them  there 

A-crowdin'  up  the  aisle. 
An'  sermons!    How  the  crowds  would  come 

To  listen!    Dear,  01  dear, 
The  parish  isn't  what  it  was 

Whin  Father  Mack  was  here." 


CANZONI  6i 


Yet,  from  a  study  of  the  rolls 
And  records,  'twould  appear 

The  parish  claimed  but  fifty  souls 
When  Father  Mack  was  here. 


62  C  A  N  Z  O  N  I 


THE  "  BUILDING  INSPECTOR  " 

WHEN  ground  is  broken  on  the  site 
For  your  new  church,  some  busy 
wight 
Is  certain  to  assume  the  right 
To  pose  as  chief  inspector. 
He  deems  it  quite  the  thing  that  he 
Should  represent  the  laity, 
And  watch  the  builder's  work  and  see 
He  doesn't  cheat  the  rector. 

Of  course  the  whole  thing's  badly  planned, 
He  tells  you,  and  you  understand 
How  good  it  is  that  he's  at  hand 

To  check  some  greater  blunder. 
The  mortar's  bad.    He  breaks  a  crumb 
Between  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
And  shakes  his  head  and  murmurs,  "  Bum! 

Who  sold  'em  that,  I  wonder?  " 

Thus  after  church  each  Sunday  morn, 
With  mingled  pity,  grief  and  scorn. 
He  goes  about  on  his  forlorn 
Grim  duty  of  inspection. 


CANZONI  63 


But,  no,  not  every  Sunday  though — 
That  statement's  not  exactly  so — 
Some  Sundays  you  take  up,  you  know, 
The  building  fund  collection. 


64  CANZONI 


H 


THE  IRISH  BACHELOR 

ERE  fur  yer  pity  or  scorn,  I'm  presintin'  ye 

Jerry  McGlone. 
Trustin'  the  life  of  him  will  be  previntin*  ye 

Marrin'  yer  own. 
Think  of  a  face  wid  a  permanint  fixture  of 
Looks  that  are  always  suggistin'  a  mixture  of 
Limmons  an'  vinegar.    There!  yeVe  a  pixture  of 

Jerry  McGlone. 

Faix,  there  is  nothin'  but  sourest  gloom  in  this 

Jerry  McGlone. 
Chris'mas  joy,  anny  joy,  niver  finds  room  in  this 

Crayture  of  stone. 
Cynical  gloom  is  the  boast  an'  the  pride  of  him. 
An'  if  a  laugh  iver  did  pierce  the  hide  of  him, 
Faix,  I  believe  'twould  immajiate,  inside  of  him, 

Change  to  a  groan. 

Whisht!  now,  an'  listen.    I'll  tell  ye  the  throuble 
wid 

Jerry  McGlone. 
He  preferred  single  life  rather  than  double  wid 

Molly  Malone. 
Think  of  it!    Think  of  an  Irishman  tarryin' 
V 


CANZONI  65 


While  there's  a  purty  girl  wishful  fur  marrying 
Arrah!  no  wonder  the  divils  are  harryin' 
Jerry  McGlone. 

Ah!  but  there's  few  0'  the  race  but  would  scorn 
to  be 

Jerry  McGlone. 
Sure,  we  all  know  that  a  Celt  is  not  born  to  be 

Livin'  alone. 
O!  but  we're  grateful  (I  spake  for  the  laity) 
Grateful  fur  women  the  bountiful  Deity 
Dowers  wid  beauty  an'  virtue  an'  gaiety, 

All  for  our  own! 


66  CANZONI 


TO  A  PLAIN  SWEETHEART 

1L0VE  thee,  dear,  for  what  thou  art, 
Nor  would  I  wish  thee  otherwise, 
For  when  thy  lashes  lift  apart 

I  read,  deep-mirrored  in  thine  eyes, 
The  glory  of  a  modest  heart. 

Wert  thou  as  fair  as  thou  art  good. 
It  were  not  given  to  any  man, 

With  daring  eyes  of  flesh  and  blood. 
To  look  thee  in  the  face  and  scan 

The  splendor  of  thy  womanhood.  < 


CANZONI  67 


THE  CONQUEST 

LAST  night  the  winter's  rear-guard  passed 
In  utter  rout  through  lane  and  street; 
With  faint  and  fainter  bugle-blast 

The  North-wind  sounded  the  retreat. 
Far  echoes  of  the  stubborn  flight 

Crept  backward  from  the  distant  hill, 
Stray  stragglers  lurched  across  the  night, 

But  soon  were  gone,  and  all  was  still. 
Then  vaguely,  through  the  pregnant  hush, 

The  murmur  of  a  marching  host 
Surged  swiftly  onward  as  the  rush 

Of  breakers  on  a  level  coast, 
Until  up-swelled  through  lane  and  street, 

In  swift  crescendo  thundering, 
The  drums  of  Southern  rain  that  beat 

Reveille  to  the  waking  Spring. 

O!  glad  gray  army  of  the  South! 

Our  sky  is  your  triumphal  arch. 
Nor  deed  of  arms  nor  word  of  mouth 

Shall  here  oppose  your  onward  march. 
The  little  children  of  the  North, 

Long  captive  to  the  winter's  cold, 
Impatient  yearn  to  sally  forth 

And  tread  the  fields  of  green  and  gold. 


68  CANZONI 


For,  love  of  life  renewed,  we  greet 
With  joy  your  conquest,  welcoming 

Invading  drums  of  rain  that  beat 
Reveille  to  the  waking  Spring. 


CANZONI  69 


A  BOOK  NOT  "  GIVABLE  " 

1HAVE  only  poor  words  to  send  you  in  time 
for  this  Christmas  Day; 
My  wonted  gift  of  the  season  must  suffer  a  slight 

delay. 
Though  I  had  what  I  felt  would  please  you,  I 

find  that  it  will  not  do, 
And  I  needs  must  wait  till  the  morrow  to  pur- 
chase a  gift  for  you. 

I  had  you  in  mind  this  morning.    The  thought  of 

you  bade  me  drop 
My  daily  cares  for  the  moment  and  hie  to  the 

bookman's  shop. 
The  shop  that  we  haunted  so  often,  down  there  in 

the  little  back  street. 
In  the  days  when  we  slaved  together  over  ledger 

and  balance-sheet 
And  squandered  our  hard-earned  pennies  for  an 

intellectual  treat. 
You  remember  those  shelves  in  the  corner  where 

you  discovered  your  Burns 
And  I  unearthed  those  treasures  of  Congreve's, 

Smollett's  and  Sterne's? 


70  CANZONI 


Well,  there's  where  I  looked  this  morning  in 

search  of  a  gift  for  you, 
And  I  saw  what  I  thought  would  please  you,  but 

I  find  that  it  will  not  do. 

Twas  the  title,  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  that 
arrested  my  roving  eye. 

And  the  make  of  the  volume  pleased  me  and 
prompted  me  to  buy. 

So  I  tucked  it  away  in  my  pocket,  with  only  a 
casual  look 

To  the  points  that  are  most  essential  in  a  thor- 
oughly "  givable  "  book. 

But  to-night  in  my  hearthside  leisure,  ere  posting 
it  off  to  you, 

I  imposed  on  myself  the  duty  to  examine  it 
through  and  through. 

I  was  rather  shocked  at  the  cover,  and  vexed  that 
I  had  not  seen 

How  the  russet  calf  was  mottled  with  mildew- 
spots  of  green. 

Then  the  title-page  is  rather  a  trifle  the  worse  for 
wear. 

And  it  really  cost  me  an  effort  to  read  the  an- 
nouncement there 

That  the  book  was  "  printed  for  Griffiths,"  and 
the  smaller  line  below: 


CANZONI  71 


"To  be  had  of  Timothy  Becket  in  Paternoster 
Row." 

I  discover  the  date  of  the  printing  is  1774. 

Was  it  after  the  author's  exit,  I  wonder,  or  be- 
fore? 

The  thought  that  this  book  had  being  in  the  very 
year  of  his  death, 

Perhaps  in  the  very  hour  that  claimed  his  de- 
parting breath, 

Makes  misty  the  reader's  vision  and  carries  the 
fancy  back 

To  the  times  and  the  haunts  of  the  genius,  poet 
and  bookman's  hack. 

What  phantasies,  sweet  and  tender,  out  of  that 
golden  age, 

March  by  in  the  time-dimmed  t)7pe  of  the 
quaintly  printed  page! 


But,  pshaw!  I  am  boring  you,  surely,  with  this 
sort  of  folderol; 

You  never  were  partial  as  I  am  to  "  poor  old  lov- 
able Noll." 

The  book's  well  enough  in  its  fashion,  but  it 
wouldn't  be  proper  to  send 

A  thing — well — so  battered  and  shabby  as  a  holi- 
day gift  to  a  friend. 


72  CANZONI 


As  I  told  you,  the  old  leather  cover  is  very  much 

mildewed  and  worn, 
And  a  few  of  the  pages  are  dog-eared  and  others 

are  torn. 
I  thought  at  first  sight  it  would  please  you,  but 

I  find  that  it  will  not  do. 
So  I  needs  must  wait  till  the  morrow  to  purchase 

a  gift  for  you. 
IVe  only  "  God-bless-you  "  to  send  you  in  time 

for  this  Christmas  Day, 
But  my  wonted  gift  of  the  season  will  follow. 

Forgive  the  delay. 


CANZONI  73 


DA  MUSICA  MAN 

YOU  knowa  Giovanni,  da  musica  man? 
He  playa  da  harpa,  he  playa  pian', 
For  maka  da  mona  wherevra  he  can. 
Da  styleesha  peopla  dey  geeve  heem  da  chance 
For  maka  da  music  for  helpa  dem  dance. 

He  playa  da  music  so  gooda,  so  gran*, 
He  tal  me,  da  ladies  dey  calla  heem  "  sweet " 
An'  geeve  heem  da  playnta  good  fooda  for  eat. 
I  like  be  Giovanni,  da  musica  man. 

Giovanni,  da  musica  man,  he  ees  fat, 
An'  sleepy  an'  lazy  so  lika  da  cat. 
So  moocha  da  dreenkin'  an'  eatin'  he  gat. 
I  gotta  da  music  eensida  my  heart; 
I  weesh  I  have  also  da  musical  art 

For  mak'  eet  com'  outa  my  heart  like  he  can. 
An'  filla  my  stomach  weeth  fooda  for  eat. 
I  digga  da  tranch;  I  work  hard  on  da  street — 

I  like  be  Giovanni,  da  musica  man. 


74  CANZONI 


THE  "  MODERATE  DRINKER '' 

1  HONOR  more  the  merry  wight 
Who,  though  he  curbs  his  appetite, 
Still  takes  a  social  beaker. 
Than  any  Prohibition  crank 
Who  prates  about  the  "  water-tank." 
I  hate  a  temperance  speaker. 

So,  come,  lift  up  a  brimming  cup 

To  all  who've  wit  to  use  it. 
And  let  it  be  our  boast  that  we 

May  use  but  not  abuse  it. 

Kind  Nature  brings  her  gift  of  wine 

That  Thought  may  glow,  that  Wit  may  shine, 

And  shall  we  then  reject  her? 
'Tis  true  the  sodden  sot's  a  beast. 
But  he's  a  death's-head  at  the  feast 

Who  will  not  touch  the  nectar. 

Once  more!    Lift  up  a  brimming  cup 

To  all  who've  wit  to  use  it. 
And  let  it  be  our  boast  that  we 

May  use  but  not  abuse  it. 


CANZONI  75 


What  need  to  men  of  common  sense 
Is  any  "  total  abstinence  "? 

There's  shimply  nothin'  to  it. 
What  harm  to  use  th'  good  ole  stuff 
If  you  (hie)  shtop  when  you've  enough? 

That'sh  way  that  I  (hie)  do  it. 

Whoopla!  fill  up  a  brimmin'  cup 

To  all  (hie)  wit  t'  ushe  it. 
(Hie)  let  (hie)  be  ou'  boash  (hie)  we 

(Wow! !)  ushe  (whoop!)  not  (hie)  'buzhe  it. 


76  CANZONI 


DA  'MERICANA    GIRL 

IGATTA  mash  weeth  Mag  McCue, 
An'  she  ees  'Mericana,  too! 
Ha!  w'at  you  theenk?    Now,  mebbe  so, 
You  weell  no  calla  me  so  slow 
Eef  som'  time  you  can  looka  see 
How  she  ees  com'  an'  flirt  weeth  me. 
Most  evra  two,  free  day,  my  frand, 
She  stops  by  dees  peanutta-stand 
An'  smile  an'  mak'  da  googla-eye 
An'  justa  look  at  me  an'  sigh. 
An'  alia  time  she  so  excite' 
She  peeck  som'  fruit  an'  taka  bite. 
O!  my,  she  eesa  look  so  sweet 
I  no  care  how  much  fruit  she  eat. 
Me?    I  am  cool  an'  mak'  pretand 
I  want  no  more  dan  be  her  frand; 
But  een  my  heart,  you  bat  my  life, 
I  theenk  of  her  for  be  my  wife. 

To-day  I  theenk:  "  Now  I  weell  see 
How  moocha  she  ees  mash  weeth  me," 
An'  so  I  speak  of  dees  an'  dat, 
How  moocha  playnta  mon'  I  gat, 
How  mooch  I  makin'  evra  day 


CANZONI  77 


An*  w'at  I  spand  an*  put  away. 

An*  den  I  ask,  so  queeck,  so  sly: 

"  You  theenk  som*  pretta  girl  weell  try 

For  lovin*  me  a  leetla  beet?  ** — 

O!  my!  she  eesa  blush  so  sweet! — 

"An*  eef  I  ask  her  lika  dees 

For  geevin*  me  a  leetla  keess, 

You  s*pose  she  geeve  me  wan  or  two?  ** 

She  tal  me:  "  Twanty-t'ree  for  youl  ** 

An*  den  she  laugh  so  sweet,  an*  say: 

"  Skeeddoo!    Skeeddoo!  **  an*  run  away. 

She  like  so  mooch  for  keessa  me 

She  gona  geeve  me  twanty-t*ree! 

I  s*pose  dat  w*at  she  say — "  skeeddoo  "— 

Ees  alia  same  "  I  lova  you.** 

Ha!  w'at  you  theenk?    Now,  mebbe  so 

You  weell  no  calla  me  so  slow! 


78  CANZONI 


FAINT  HEART 

1  WONDER  if  she  knows  how  much 
My  heart  cries  out  for  her  dear  heart. 
I  wonder  if  she's  felt  the  touch, 
The  joyous  thrill,  the  bitter  smart 
Of  Cupid's  dart. 
I  wonder. 

I  wonder  what  she'll  say  to  me 
When  I  have  told  my  tale  to-night. 

O!  will  it  be  my  fate  to  be 
Transported  to  the  sun-kissed  height 
Of  sheer  delight? 
I  wonder. 

I  wonder  if  I'll  tell  my  tale 
At  all!    I've  often  tried  before. 

By  Jove!    I  feel  my  courage  fail. 
And  here,  a  timid  mouse  once  more. 
On  past  her  door 
I  wander. 


CANZONI  79 


BALLADE  OF  FAMILY  NAMES 

CHANGE  is  the  order  in  man's  estate, 
Times  have  changed  and  the  customs,  too; 
Everything  now  must  be  up-to-date. 
Things  old-fashioned  will  never  do. 
Even  the  names  that  our  fathers  knew — 
Jonas,  Zachary,  Zebedee — 

Fashion  adjures  us  we  must  eschew. 
What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 

Patronymics  with  frills  ornate, 
Out  of  the  roots  of  the  old  names  grew. 

"  Kathryn  "  cooed  in  the  arms  of  "  Kate," 
"  Hugo  "  hsped  at  the  knees  of  "  Hugh." 
Nursery  walls  of  the  wealthy  few 

Rang  with  titles  of  high  degree. 
All  affecting  the  blood  that's  blue — 

What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 

Greater  changes  have  come  of  late; 

Even  these  new  names  fade  from  view. 
Wife  and  husband  no  more  debate 

Titles  fitting  their  infant  crew. 

Even  the  infants  lie  perdue. 


8o  CANZONI 


"  Fido/'  "  Rover  "  and  "  Tige  »— Ah!  me, 

These  are  the  names  that  the  maids  halloo. 
What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 

ENVOY 

Man,  it  is  sad,  but  alas!  it's  true. 
Fashion's  killing  your  family  tree. 

If  but  a  little  bark's  left  to  you, 
What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 


CANZONI  8i 


DA  STYLEESHA  LADY 

ITAL  you  w'at,  you  oughta  see 
Carlotta,  dat's  my  girl,  w'en  she 
Ees  feex*  for  holiday.    I  guess 
You  nevva  see  sooch  style^shness. 
She  gotta  yallow  seelka  skirt 
Ees  look  so  fine  you  theenk  ees  wort' 
'Bout  twanty  dollar,  mebbe  more, 
Eef  you  gon'  buy  eet  een  da  store. 
So,  too,  she  gotta  purpla  wais' 
Dat's  treem'  weeth  pretta  yallow  lace, 
An'  bigga  golda  breasta-peen 
Ees  steeckin'  ondraneat'  her  cheen. 
Eh?    Wait,  my  fraud!     On  toppa  dat 
She  got  da  beega  redda  hat 
Weeth  coupla  featha,  brighta  green, 
An'  whita  rosa  een  baytween. 
Da  redda,  whita,  green,  you  see, 
Ees  lika  flag  of  Italy! 

Ha!  w'at  you  theenka  dat  for  style? 
Ah!  yes,  my  fraud,  eet  mak'  you  smile; 
You  can  eemagine,  den,  of  me, 
How  proud  I  smile  w'en  first  I  see. 
You  can  baylieve  how  proud  I  feel 
For  walkin'  out  weeth  her;  but  steell 


82  CANZONI 


I  gatta — w'at  you  call — "  deestress  " 
Baycause  for  all  dees  styleeshness. 
You  see,  w'en  she  ees  look  so  sweet 
I  Afraid  for  let  her  on  da  street. 
I  justa  feela  scare'  dat  som' 
Beeg  reecha  man  ees  gona  com' 
An'  see  how  styleesh  she  can  be, 
An'  steala  her  away  from  me. 


CANZONI  83 


ALMOST 

"  /np^HERE  stands  the  parson's  house,"  he  said. 

X     The  maiden  hung  her  modest  head, 
Lest  he  who  thus  was  moved  to  speak 
Should  note  the  blush  that  dyed  her  cheek. 
The  moonlit  fields,  the  sky  above, 
Were  mutely  eloquent  of  love; 
And  love  surcharged  the  ambient  air 
Breathed  in  by  this  young  rustic  pair. 
With  beating  hearts,  across  the  road. 
They  saw  the  minister's  abode. 
The  study  lamp  a  welcome  gleamed, 
And,  through  the  summer  twilight,  seemed 
Inviting  them  to  near  the  door. 
"  There  stands  the  parson's  house!  "    Once  more 
His  fervid  thoughts  broke  forth  in  speech. 
Then  silence,  thrilling  each  to  each, 
Surrounded  them  and  held  them  mute. 
Far-off  they  heard  an  owlet  hoot 
"  To  whit!  to  woo!  "    The  maiden's  heart 
Was  warm  for  him,  but  hers  the  part 
To  modestly  await  the  word 
That  she  in  fancy  oft  had  heard, 
And  which,  instinctively  she  knew. 
Was  trembling  on  his  tongue.    He,  too, 


84  CANZONI 


Was  conscious  of  his  own  love's  strength, 

And  meant  to  speak.    He  said,  at  length: 

"  There  stands  the  parson's  house,  and  there — " 

His  hand  a-tremble  cleft  the  air — 

"  Is  where  it  used  to  stand!  "    And  then 

He  led  her  down  the  road  again. 


CANZONI  85 


CAREY,  THE  KILL- JOY 

IF  ye  iver  see  Timothy  Carey 
Jisht  trust  to  the  speed  o'  yer  heels. 
Take  warnin'  from  Malachy  Cleary — 
That's  me,  an'  I  know  how  it  feels. 
If  ye^e  bint  on  revivin'  yer  nature 

Wid  innocint  pleasure,  me  boy. 
Get  out  o'  the  way  o'  this  crayture — 
His  thrade  is  the  killin'  o'  joy. 

Now,  wan  day  whin  I  sat  at  me  dinner, 

Wid  hunger  enough  an'  to  spare, 
In  walks  this  same  gloomy  ould  sinner 

An'  leans  on  the  back  o'  me  chair. 
"  Come  an'  jine  me,"  sez  I;  "  I'd  be  hatin' 

Mesel'  fur  the  glutton  I  am 
To  deny  ye  this  taste  0'  good  'atin' — 

'Tis  luscious  b'iled  cabbage  an'  ham!  " 

"  Man  alive!  are  ye  crazy?  "  sez  Carey, 
An'  frowns  in  his  soberest  way, 

"  Sure  an'  have  ye  furgot,  Misther  Cleary, 
That  this  is  a  fasht-day  th'-day?  " 


86  CANZONI 


An'  wid  that  the  ould  joy-killin'  sinner 
Jisht  turned  on  his  heel  an'  wint  out, 

An'  he  left  me  me  illigant  dinner 
Like  ashes,  stone-cowld,  in  me  mout'. 

'Twas  a  sin  o'  me,  bein'  forgetful; 

I  should  have  remimbered  the  day, 
But  I  couldn't  help  feelin'  regretful 

To  see  me  feast  fadin'  away; 
For  'twas  not  for  me  soul's  sake  that  Carey 

Shpoke  up,  but  'twas  jisht  to  annoy. 
'Tis  his  nature  that's  mane  an'  conthrary — 

His  thrade  is  the  killin'  o'  joy. 


CANZONI  87 


A  LESSON  IN  POLITICS 

I  NO  care  for  gattin'  meex' 
Een  dees  Ceety  politeecs. 
I  no  gatta  vote,  an'  so 
I  no  weeshin'  mooch  to  know 
W'eech  side  right  an'  w'eech  side  wrong: 
I  no  bother  mooch  so  long 
Dey  no  bother  mooch  weeth  me — 
I  jus'  want  do  beez'ness,  see? 

I  no  like  poleecaman 
Com'  to  dees  peanutta-stan', 
Like  he  do  most  evra  day, 
Jus'  for  talka  deesa  way: 
"  Wal,  my  frand,  I  tal  you  w'at, 
Politeecs  ees  gattin'  hot. 
Don't  you  mind  all  deesa  queer 
Talka  'bout  da  *  Graft '  you  hear. 
Notheeng  een  eet!  "    (Here  he  tak' 
Bigga  pieca  geenger  cak'.) 
"  Dees  '  Reforma  '  mak'  me  seeck! 
Sucha  foolish  theengs  dey  speak! 
All  dees  '  graft '  ees  een  deir  eye." 
(Now  he  taka  pieca  pie.) 
"  I  been  een  dees  politeecs 
Seexa  year  an'  know  da  treecks, 


CANZONI 


But  I  tal  you  I  ain't  met 
Any  kinda  grafta  yet." 
(Here  he  taka  two  banan\) 
"  Evra  publeec  office  man 
Worka  for  a  salary 
Jus'  da  sama  lika  me. 
We  no  want  no  more  dan  dat — 
Jus'  contant  weeth  w'at  we  gat." 
(Den  he  tak'  weeth  botha  hand 
Som'  peanutta.)    "  So,  my  frand, 
Don't  baylieva  all  dees  queer 
Talka  'bouta  '  graft '  you  hear." 


Nutta,  caka,  pie,  banan', 
All  for  wan  poleecaman! 
Mebbe  ees  no  "  grafta  " — say! 
W'at  ees  "  grafta,"  anyway? 


C  A  N  Z  O  N  I  89 


MISTLETOE  AND  HOLLY 

THE  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls. 
Red  berries  hath  the  holly. 
Remember,  all  ye  modest  girls, 
The  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls, 
And  when  it  hangs  above  your  curls. 

Away  with  melancholy! 
The  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls, 
Red  berries  hath  the  holly. 

Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find. 

We  do  not  need  it,  Mollie. 
O!  do,  I  beg  of  you,  be  kind; 
Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find. 
Pretend  that  you  are  color-blind 

And  kiss  beneath  this  holly. 
Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find, 

We  do  not  need  it,  Mollie. 


90  CANZONI 


HANDICAPPED 

EEF  I  could  talka  'Merican 
Like  w'at  I  can  Italian, 
So  stronga  langwadge  eet  would  be 
You  would  be  scare'  for  joke  weeth  me. 
Een  Italy  I  am  so  queeck 
For  theenk  of  sassy  theengs  to  speak, 
Wen  som'  wan  makin'  fun  weeth  me, 
Dat  nexta  time  dey  let  me  be. 
Da  professor!  from  da  school 
Som'  time  was  try  for  mak'  me  fool; 
Ah!  wal,  dey  find,  you  bat  my  life. 
My  tongue  ees  sharpa  like  da  knife. 
So,  evra  wan  was  'fraid  weeth  me 
Wen  I  am  home,  een  Napoli. 
But  een  New  Yorka  Ceety  here 
Ees  deefferant;  an'  eet  ees  queer! 
Da  streeta  keed,  so  tough,  so  small. 
He  ees  no  scare'  weeth  me  at  all. 
He  talk  to  me  so  sharp,  so  queeck 
My  tongue  ees  gat  too  twist'  for  speak; 
He  mak'  da  face  an'  laugh,  an'  den 
Ees  gat  me  tangla  up  agen. 
Wen  he  ees  two,  free  blocks  away, 
I  theenk  of  som'theeng  sharp  to  say 


CANZONI  91 


Dat  mak'  heem  stop  from  be  so  tough- 
Eef  I  have  say  eet  queeck  enough. 

Wal,  mebbe  eet  ees  better  so, 
Bay  cause  eef  soocha  keed  could  know 
How  sharpa  tongue  ees  een  my  head 
He  be  so  scare'  he  droppa  dead! 


92  CANZONI 


A  FANCY  NICOTIAN 

TIME  was,  my  love,  ere  you  came  as  queen 
To  this  bachelor  heart  of  mine, 
I  bowed  to  the  princess  of  Nicotine, 

Who  dwelt  in  an  amber  shrine. 
And  there,  when  I  willed,  her  heart  glowed  red 

And  her  languorous  spirit  rose. 
And  my  soul  followed  where  her  soul  led. 

Away  from  the  world  of  prose, 
To  a  world  rerisen  from  out  of  the  shade 

Of  ages  passing  belief. 
Where  she  was  again  a  Delaware  maid 

And  I  was  a  Huron  chief. 
.....  .  • 

I  had  made  a  journey  to  seek  her  hand, 

I  had  come  from  the  inland  seas. 
Far  down  to  the  Big  Salt  Water's  strand 

Where  clustered  her  tribe's  tepees. 
And  thither  I  brought  a  hundred  pelts 

Of  the  beasts  my  arm  had  slain. 
And  beaded  garments  and  wampum  belts, 

That  my  love-quest  be  not  vain. 
Then  her  people  said:  "  It  is  meet  indeed!  - 

The  eagle  shall  mate  with  the  dove." 
O!  their  little  hearts  they  were  drunk  with  greed. 

But  hers  was  big  with  love. 


CANZONI  93 


When  into  my  hand  she  slipped  her  own, 

And  our  souls  thrilled  each  to  each, 
My  full  heart  clogged  my  throat  like  a  stone 

And  robbed  my  tongue  of  speech. 
But  faith  burns  fervid  and  hope  is  high 

In  the  heart  of  a  loving  maid, 
And  reading  but  joy  in  her  lover's  eye 

She  follows  him,  unafraid. 
Beasts  of  the  forest  there  were,  and  men, 

To  harry  our  path  with  strife,. 
But  her  love  gave  me  the  strength  of  ten. 

We  were  masters  of  love  and  life. 

All  this,  my  love,  was  before  you  came 

To  brighten  this  life  of  mine. 
But  still  I  dream  when  the  touch  of  flame 

Enkindles  that  amber  shrine; 
And  the  fragrant  spirit  of  Nicotine, 

In  circles  my  head  above. 
Discloses  ever  the  self-same  scene. 

The  picture  of  world-old  love. 
That  world  rerisen  from  out  of  the  shade 

Of  ages  passing  belief; 
But  now  it  is  thou  art  the  Delaware  maid 

When  I  am  the  Huron  chief. 


94  CANZONI 


UN  LAZZARONE 

SO  lazy  man  I  nevva  see 
Like  Joe  Baratt'  een  Napoli. 
you  no  could  mak'  heem  work  2M:  all; 
Een  Napoli  he  w'at  you  call 
^'  Un  lazzarone  ";  dat'  sa  "  bum." 
No  gotta  job,  no  gotta  home, 
No  gotta  weesh  for  maka  mon', 
But  jus'  for  seetin'  een  da  sun. 
So  lazy,  good-for-notheeng,  O! 
Da  worsta  wan  ees  deesa  Joe. 
You  say  "  Gelato,  Joe?  "  to  heem — 
"  Gelato  "  ees  da  same  "  ice-cream  " — 
He  ope'  hees  eyes  a  leetla  beet 
Baycause  he  ees  so  fond  of  eet. 
An'  den  he  ope'  hees  mout'  so  wide 
An'  wait  for  you  to  put  eenside. 
He  weell  no  tak'  da  deesh  of  cream, 
But  so  you  gona  feeda  heem! 
So  lazy  man  I  nevva  see 
Like  Joe  Baratt'  eepi  Napoli! 
I  no  can  tal  how  eet  should  be, 
But  deesa  Joe  he  cross  da  sea 
An'  com'  Noo  York  last'  Fall,  you  know, 
Wen  evratheeng  ees  ice  an'  snow. 
Ees  nevva  so  disgusta  man 


CANZONI  95 


Like  Joe  Baratt'  w'en  he  ees  Ian'. 
Oh!  my!  he  sheever,  shake  an  'sneeze, 
An'  he  mus'  dance  for  keep  from  freeze. 
So  lively  man  I  nevva  see 
Like  Joe  Baratt'  from  Napoli ! 
An'  now  he  work  for  stevedore 
Like  w'at  he  nevva  do  bayfore, 
Baycause  he  needa  mon',  so  he 
Can  gat  back  home  een  Napoli, 
For  sleepin'  een  da  sunshine  w'en 
Da  weenter-time  ees  com'  agen. 
So  lively  man  you  nevva  see 
Like  Joe  Baratt'  from  Napoli. 


96  CANZONI 


BEDFELLOWS 

A  INT  no  one  so  glad  as  me 
When  they's  lady-company 
Comes  to  visit  us  an'  stay 
All  that  night  until  it's  day. 
Ain't  much  sleepin'-room  at  all 
In  our  house — it's  made  so  small — 
But  my  Pa  he'll  always  'low 
We  kin  "  double-up  somehow.'* 
'Nen  when  all  my  prayers  is  said 
Ma  she  tucks  me  into  bed 
'Way  'way  over  on  one  side. 
'Nen  I  feel  real  satisfied 
To  be  sleepy  an'  to  go 
Right  spang  off,  because  I  know 
When  I  wake  fust  thing  I'll  see 
Will  be  Pa  in  bed  with  me. 
'Nen  for  fun!     I  tell  you  what, 
'At's  the  time  I  have  a  lot. 
I  jist  crawl  on  Pa  an'  shake 
His  ole  head  till  he's  awake. 
Fust  he'll  lay  real  still  an'  play 
He's  asleep  an'  goin'  to  stay. 
'Nen  he'll  raise  up  in  the  air. 
Growl  an'  cut  up  like  a  bear 
Come  to  eat  me  up,  an'  I 


CANZONI  97 


Laugh  an'  squeal  an'  yell.    O  my! 
We  jist  run  things,  me  an'  Pa, 
Havin'  lots  o'  fun,  till  Ma, 
In  the  next  room,  sez:  "  You  boys 
Best  git  dressed  an'  quit  that  noise." 
I  wisht  every  night  'at  we 
Might  have  lady-company. 


98  CANZONI 


THOSE  DIRTY  LITTLE  FINGERS 

FROM  the  moment  he  could  stand  alone  and 
toddle 
Across  the  bed-room  floor  from  chair  to  chair, 
There  was  never  any  respite  for  his  mother; 
He  was  getting  into  mischief  everywhere. 
There   were  somersaults   distracting   down   the 
stairway, 
And  tumbles  off  the  sofa,  to  be  sure, 
And  the  bumps  he  got  were  really  quite  terrific, 

But  none  a  mother's  kisses  couldn't  cure. 
He'd  a  most  plebeian  fondness  for  the  kitchen. 

Whose  precincts  were  his  favorite  retreat. 
And  the  coal-hod  held  for  him  a  fascination. 

For  he  seemed  to  think  its  contents  good  to  eat. 
But  the  thing  that  caused  his  mother's  greatest 
worry, 
And  made  her  ply  her  house-cloth  o'er  and  o'er, 
Was  his  subsequent  invasion  of  the  parlor 
With  his  grimy  little  fingers  on  the  door. 

How  the  whiteness  of  the  paint  was  desecrated 
By  those  dirty  little  digits  every  day; 

Though  his  weary  mother  wept  and  begged  and 
scolded 
He  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  his  way. 


CANZONI  99 


It  was  evident  that  he  was  only  happy 

When  his  fingers  held  their  share  and  more  of 
dirt; 
And  the  only  thing  he  loathed  was  soap  and  water, 

And  O!  my  goodness  gracious!  how  that  hurt. 
But  it  hurts  us  now  to  contemplate  the  cleanness 

Of  everything  about  this  quiet  place; 
All  the  finger-marks  that  used  to  mar  the  wood- 
work 

Have  disappeared,  nor  left  the  slightest  trace. 
For  the  last  of  them  were  wiped  away  last  sum- 
mer, 

Glad  summer  that  is  gone  forevermore! 
We  are  lonely,  Lord,  and  hungering  to  see  him, 

With  his  grimy  little  fingers  on  the  door. 


100  CANZONI 


DA  YOUNGA  'MERICAN 

IIMYSAL',  I  feela  strange 
Een  dees  countra.    I  can  no 
Mak^  mysaP  agen  an*  change 

Eento  'Merican,  an'  so 
I  am  w'at  you  calla  me, 

Justa  "  dumb  ole  Dago  man." 
Alia  same  my  boy  ees  be 

Smarta  younga  'Merican. 
Twalv'  year  ole!  but  alia  same 

He  ees  learna  soocha  lot 
He  can  read  an'  write  hees  name — 

Smarta  keed?    I  tal  you  w'at! 

He  no  talk  Italian; 

He  say:  "  Dat's  for  Dagoes  speak, 
I  am  younga  'Merican, 

Dago  langwadge  mak'  me  seeck." 
Eef  you  gona  tal  heem,  too. 

He  ees  "  leetla  Dago,"  my! 
He  ees  gat  so  mad  weeth  you 

He  gon'  ponch  you  een  da  eye. 
Mebbe  so  you  gona  mak' 

Fool  weeth  heem — an'  mebbe  not. 
Queeck  as  flash  he  sass  you  back; 

Smarta  keed?    I  tal  you  w'ati 


CANZON:!  '   .'>  ;    ,':'■>  .:^ei: 


He  ees  moocha  'shame'  for  be 

Meexa  weeth  Italian; 
He  ees  moocha  'shame'  of  me — 

I  am  dumb  ole  Dago  man.  . 
Evra  time  w'en  I  go  out 

Weetha  heem  I  no  can  speak 
To  som'body.    "  Shut  your  mout'," 

He  weell  tal  me  pretta  queeck, 
"  You  weell  geeve  yoursal'  away 

Talkin'  Dago  lika  dat; 
Try  be  'Merican,"  he  say — 

Smarta  keed?    I  tal  you  w'at! 

I  am  w'at  you  calla  me, 
Justa  "dumb  ole  Dago  man;" 

Alia  same  my  boy  ees  be 
Smarta  younga  'Merican. 


,;io?..'.-:i     ',   ;,      CANZONI 


NIGHT  IN  BACHELOR'S  HALL 

THEY'VE  gone  away!    It  seems  a  year, 
Aye!  weeks  of  years,  since  they  were  here; 
And  yet  it  was  but  yesterday 
I  kissed  them  when  they  went  away, 
Away  from  all  the  scorching  heat 
That  grips  this  brick-walled  city  street. 
And  it  was  I  who  bade  them  go, 
Though  she,  dear  heart,  protested  so. 
And  vowed  I'd  find  no  joy  at  all. 
Nor  any  peace,  in  Bachelor's  Hall. 
I  laughed  at  that,  but  she  was  right; 
I  never  knew  a  sadder  night 
Than  this,  while  thus  I  tread,  alone. 
These  silent  halls  I  call  my  own. 
I  never  thought  this  place  could  change 
So  utterly  and  seem  so  strange.  ' 

The  night  is  hot,  and  yet  a  chill 
Pervades  the  house;  it  is  so  still. 

I  miss  the  living  atmosphere 
That  comforts  me  when  they  are  here; 
I  miss  the  sigh,  long-drawn  and  deep. 
The  music  of  refreshing  sleep. 
That  undulates  the  gentle  breast 
Of  weary  motherhood  at  rest. 


CANZONI  103 


And  in  the  unaccustomed  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  small  adjoining  room 
I  miss  the  moans,  the  muffled  screams, 
Of  childhood  troubled  in  its  dreams. 
And  is  this  all?    No!  more  I  miss 
The  strong,  heart-thrilling  joy,  the  bliss 
Of  warding,  with  protecting  arm. 
Between  these  precious  hearts  and  harm. 

O!  sing  your  song,  all  ye  who  roam, 

Your  wistful  song  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,'' 

But,  though  unhappy  is  your  lot, 

You  will  not  find  a  sadder  spot 

In  all  the  world  than  Home,  when  they 

Who  make  it  Home  have  gone  away. 


104  CANZONI 


THE  INDOMITABLE  CELT 

^LTHOUGH  the  joy's  denied  to  me 
JHL  This  blessed  "  Patrick's  Day  " 
To  be  where  I  would  wish  to  be 

And  whistle  Care  away, 
My  mem'ry  lives  within  me  still; 

So  I  may  close  my  eyes 
And  fancy  I  can  feel  the  thrill 

Of  spring  from  Irish  skies, 
And  make  myself  believe  to-day 

I*m  off  with  my  colleen 
To  Clogher's,  where  the  pipers  play 

"  The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 

It's  cold  and  drear  in  this  far  land, 

And  winter's  skies  are  gray, 
And  there's  no  sign  that  spring's  at  hand 

This  drear  St.  Patrick's  Day. 
But  though  no  shamrocks  brave  the  air 

Of  this  new  home  of  mine, 
I've  found  a  bit  of  green  to  wear — 

This  sprig  of  Northern  pine. 
So  I'll  be  joyful  as  I  may. 

And  dream  of  my  colleen 
And  Clogher's,  where  the  pipers  play 

"  The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 


CANZONI  105 


DA  FAMILY  MAN 

IAIN'  gon'  gatta  mad  so  queeck 
Like  w'at  I  use'  to  do. 
I  gon'  geeve  up  dees  ogly  treeck 

Of  speakin'  swear-words,  too. 
An'  now  w'en  com'sa  badda  keed 

For  call  me  "  Dago!  " — wal, 
I  ain'  gon'  do  like  w'at  I  deed 

An'  tal  heem  "gotohal!  " 
Eef  som'  one  com'  for  makin'  fool 

Weeth  me,  I  show  dem  how 
I  jus'  can  smile  an'  keepa  cool — 

I  gon'  be  good  man  now. 

I  am  too  prouda  man  to-day 

For  wanta  swear  an'  fight, 
An'  I  no  care  w'at  bad  keeds  say 

For  makin'  me  excite'. 
So  eef  som'body  com'  an'  try 

For  makin'  fool  weeth  me, 
I  justa  gon'  be  dignifi' 

Like  fam'ly  man  should  be  . 
Las'  night  da  doctor  bring  my  wife 

A  baby  girl.    Dat's  how 
I  am  so  proud.    You  bat  my  life, 

I  gon'  be  good  man  now! 


io6  CANZONI 


DA  FIGHTIN'  IRISHMAN 

IRISHMAN  he  mak'  me  seeckl 
He  ees  gat  excit'  so  queeck, 
An'  so  queeck  for  fightin',  too, 
An',  baysides,  you  newa  know 
How  you  gona  please  heem.    So 
W'ata  deuce  you  gona  do? 

Wen  I  work  een  tranch  wan  day, 
Irish  boss  he  com'  an'  say: 
"  Evra  wan  een  deesa  tranch, 
I  no  care  eef  he  ees  Franch, 
Anglaice,  Dago,  Dootch  or  w'at, 
Evra  wan  he  musta  gat 
Leetla  pieca  green  to  show 
For  da  San  Patricio. 
Dees  ees  Irish  feasta  day. 
Go  an'  gat  som'  green!  "  he  say, 
''  An'  eef  you  no  do  eet,  too, 
I  gon'  poncha  head  on  you!  " 
So  I  gat  som'  green  to  show 
For  da  San  Patricio. 
Bimeby,  'nudder  Irishman 
He  ees  com'  where  I  am  stan'. 
An'  he  growl  at  me  an'  say: 
"  W'at  you  wearin'  dat  for,  eh? 


CANZONI  107 


Mebbe  so  you  theenk  you  be 
Gooda  Irishman  like  me. 
Green  ees  jus^  for  Irishman, 
No  for  dumb  Eyetalian! 
Tak*  eet  off!  "  he  say,  an',  my! 
He  ees  ponch  me  een  da  eye! 

Irishman  he  mak'  me  seeck! 
He  ees  gat  excite'  so  queeck. 

An'  so  queeck  for  fightin',  too. 
An',  baysides,  you  nevva  know 
How  you  gona  please  heem.    So 

W'ata  deuce  you  gona  do? 


io8  CANZONI 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD 

W'EN  Gran'-pa  takes  me  on  his  knee 
I'm  jist  as  glad  as  I  kin  be; 
'Cause  he's  the  bestest  friend  I  got, 
An'  in  his  pockets  they's  a  lot 
Of  candies,  sugar-cakes  an'  things 
Like  dear  ole  Gran '-pa  always  brings. 
An'  he'll  say:  "  Now,  my  little  dear, 
Let's  see  w'at's  in  this  pocket  here;  " 
And  I  put  in  my  hand  and  take 
Some  candy  out  or  else  some  cake. 
'Nen  Gran'-pa  laughs,  an'  so  do  I ; 
He'll  play  he's  s'prised  an'  say:  "  O!  My! 
I  wonder  how  that  got  in  there, 
Now  w'at  do  I  git  fur  my  share?  " 
I  laugh,  an'  climb  right  up  an'  kiss 
Him  where  his  tickly  whiskers  is. 
He  hugs  me  tight,  an'  sez:  "  Oho! 
Here's  jist  the  goodest  boy  I  know." 
An'  I  am  good  as  I  kin  be 
Wen  Gran'-pa  takes  me  on  his  knee. 

When  Papa  takes  me  on  his  knee 
I  ain't  so  glad  as  I  might  be. 
He  ain't  as  nice  as  Gran'-pa  wuz, 
For  he  don't  do  like  Gran'-pa  does. 


CANZONI  109 


He  on'y  does  it  w'en  he's  mad, 
An'  w'en  he  sez  I'm  awful  bad. 
He  don't  like  Gran'-pa's  "  carryin's-on." 
Fur  onct  w'en  Gran'-pa'd  been  an'  gone 
He  told  Ma:  "  Say,  it  drives  me  wild 
The  way  you  Pa  jist  sp'iles  that  child," 
An'  'nen  he  maked  a  grab  fur  me 
An'  upside-downed  me  on  his  knee, 
An'  says,  "  Now  if  it's  in  the  wood 
I'll  see  if  I  can't  made  you  good." 
An'  w'en  Pa  let  me  off  his  knee 
I  promised  him  how  good  I'd  be. 


no  CANZONI 


DA  STYLEESHA  WIFE 

GIUSEPPE,  da  barber,  ees  catcha  da  wife! 
O!  my,  you  weell  laugh  w'en  you  see  w'at 
he  gat. 
She  gotta  da  face  ees  so  sharp  like  da  knife — 
He  say  "  ees  no  styleesh  for  face  to  be  fat." 
Her  fingers,  so  skeenny,  ees  notheeng  but  bone; 
You  'fraid  dey  weell  bust  w'en  you  go  for  shak' 
han\ 
He  say:  "  Dat'sa  sign  she  ees  vera  high-tone', 
She  no  gotta  ban's  like  two  bonch  da  banan'." 
Ha!  w'at  you  theenk  dat 
For  talk  een  hees  hat? 
W'at  good  eesa  wife  eef  she  don'ta  be  fat? 

Giuseppe  he  tal  me  I  no  ondrastan' 

Da  'Merican  lady  so  gooda  like  heem; 
He  tal  me  hees  wife  ees  da  "  swell  'Merican," 

An'  looka  so  styleesh  baycause  she  ees  "  sleem." 
I  tal  heem  da  "  styleeshness  "  notta  so  good 

For  keepa  da  house  an'  for  helpin'  her  mooch 
To  nursa  da  baby  an'  carry  da  wood. 

He  say:  "  I  no  care  eef  she  nevva  do  sooch." 
Ha!  w'at  you  theenk  dat 
For  talk  een  hees  hat? 
W'at  good  eesa  wife  eef  she  don'ta  be  fat? 


CANZONI  III 


THE  KETTLE'S  SONG  OF  HOME 

AIN'T  berry  menny  people  w'at'll  listen  to  a 
niggah, 
Or  'low  dey's  enny  sense  in  w'at  he  say, 
But  I  gwine  to  gib  de  'sperience  ob  mah  feelin's, 
an' I  figgah 
Dat  dey's  quite  a  smaht  ob  people  t'inks  mah 
way. 
Wen  a  man  begins  a-shoutin'  'bout  de  good  t'ings 
dat  he's  missin', 
Kickin'  kase  dey  ain't  no  fo'tune  in  his  job, 
Let  'im  go  home  to  his  kitchen,  an'  set  down  a 
while  an'  listen 
To  de  singin'  ob  de  kittle  on  de  hob. 

De  rich  man  kin  inhabitate  a  palace  ef  he  wishes, 

Wif  chiny-war'  an'  pictuahs  on  de  wall, 
An'  kin  lay  on  velvet  sofers  an'  eat  off' n  golden 
dishes. 
But  I  wouldn't  swap  mah  kitchen  fo'  it  all. 
Fo'  hit  wouldn'  seem  laik  home  to  me,  but  'ceptin' 
I  could  listen, 
A-puffin'  at  de  backy  in  mah  cob. 
While  de  good  Lawd  seemed  a-speakin'  ob  a 
home-like  kind  o'  blessin' 
Frough  de  singin'  ob  de  kittle  on  de  hob. 


112  CANZONI 


TO  THE  ATHEIST 

SAY!  you  gat  to  hal  weeth  your  talk! 
I  gotta  da  troubla  my  own.  [ 
You  please  me  by  taka  da  walk — 

I  wanta  for  seet  here  alone. 
Eh?    Wat?    Yes,  I  s'pose  I«am  dumb, 

An'  so  you  no  maka  me  wise 
No  matter  how  moocha  you  com' 

For  tryin'  to  open  my  eyes. 
Jus'  s'posa  my  eyes  dey  are  blind — 

So  blind  like  you  theenk  dem  to  be — 
More  beautiful  theengs  dey  can  find 

Dan  w'at  you  are  able  to  see. 
You  want  I  should  tal  you  da  sight 

I  see  w'en  I  seet  here  alone? 
You  wanta  for  see?    Alia  right, 

I  geeve  you  my  eyes  for  your  own. 
Com',  look!  dere  is  beautiful  girl. 

So  sweeta,  so  good  an'  so  true; 
Ah!  you  are  a  keeng  of  da  worl' 

To  know  dat  she  smila  for  you. 

Now,  see!  she  ees  geevin'  her  han' 

Forevra  da  wifa  to  be 
To  "  no-good-for-notheenga  "  man — 

Dat  no  gooda  man,  eet  ees  me! 


CANZONI  113 


Now — ^presto! — da  peectura  change. 

Da  beautiful  girl  eesa  gon'; 
Da  man  ees  look  olda  an'  strange 

An'  he  ees  jus'  seettin'  alone. 
But  steell  you  can  see  weeth  hees  eyes, 

So  blind,  like  you  say,  an'  so  dumb, 
An  angela  up  in  da  skies 

Dat  smila  an'  wait  teell  he  com'. 
You  sneer;  you  no  gotta  belief. 

You  tal  me  we  die  an'  we  be 
Like  dogs,  an'  you  com'  lika  thief 

For  steala  my  faitha  from  me. 
Wal,  even  eef  you  no  be  dam, 

An'  eef  w'at  I  see  ees  no  true, 
I  radder  be  dumb  like  I  am 

Dan  wisa  beeg  foola  like  you! 


114  CANZONI 


AT  HOME 

AT  home  to-night,  alone  with  Dot, 
jLjl     I  loaf  my  soul  and  care  not  what 

In  worlds  beyond  may  come  or  go. 

Four  walls,  a  roof,  to  brave  the  snow, 
Suffice  to  bound  this  Eden  spot. 

Dot  has  her  sewing  things;  IVe  got 
My  pipe,  a  glass  of  something  hot 
And  Dot  herself.    The  world's  aglow, 
At  home  to-night. 

As  lovers  in  some  golden  plot 
The  poet  weaves  of  Camelot, 

We  feel  apart  from  earth.    We  know 
The  servant  in  the  hall  below 
Will  say  to  all  who  call  we're  not 
At  home  to-night. 


CANZONI  115 


TO  AN  OLD  LOVER 

THERE  is  silvery  frost  on  your  hair,  old  boy, 
There  are  lines  on  your  forehead,  too; 
But  your  clear  eyes  speak  of  the  peace  and  joy 

That  dwell  in  the  heart  of 'you. 
For  the  passing  of  youth  you  have  no  regret. 

No  sighs  for  the  summer  gloam 
And  the  lovers'  moon.    They  are  with  you  yet 
In  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  home. 

In  your  summer  of  youth,  in  that  sunny  hour 

That  will  come  to  you  never  again. 
When  you  wooed  your  love  as  the  bee  the  flower, 

The  sweets  that  you  gathered  then 
You  have  hived  and  stored  for  your  later  life, 

And  your  heart  is  the  honeycomb — 
Ah!  IVe  seen  your  face  when  you  kissed  your 
wife 

In  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  home. 

O!  you  rare  old  lover!     O!  faithful  knight. 

With  your  sweetheart  of  long  ago. 
You  are  many  days  from  the  warmth  and  light 

Of  the  summers  you  used  to  know; 


ii6  CANZONI 


But  you  need  not  yearn  for  the  glamor  and  gold 
Of  the  fields  you  were  wont  to  roam — 

O!  the  light  for  the  hearts  that  are  growing  old 
Is  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  home. 


CANZONI    ,  117 


TREASURE-TROVE 

THERE'S  a  letter  come  this  minute 
From  across  the  boundin'  sea, 
And  it  has  a  treasure  in  it 

That  delights  the  soul  of  me. 
Not  a  shinin'  bit  o'  gold 
Does  this  blessed  letter  hold, 
But  a  priceless  gem  as  ancient  as  the  world  is  old. 

'Tis  meself,  to-morrow  mornin'. 

Will  be  proud  to  let  ye  see 
This  most  precious  gem  adornin' 

Of  the  Sunday  hat  of  me. 
Tis  a  little  sprig  o'  green 
Of  the  sort  IVe  often  seen 
My  grandfather  wearin'  in  his  ould  caubeen. 

Then  here^s  to  the  trefoil, 
An'  may  it  grow  in  free  soil 
That  knows  not  the  dominion  of  a  Saxon  King  or 
Queen; 

The  Shamrock  of  old  Erin! 
That  the  patriot's  still  wearin' 
Where  the  whole  world  may  see  it,  in  his  ould 
caubeen. 


ii8  CANZONI 


THE  LITTLE  BOY 

THE  little  boy  Jack  was  a  Jack  o'  Hearts, 
For  every  one  loved  the  lad, 
And  the  birds  from  near  and  foreign  parts 

Were  some  of  the  friends  he  had. 
The  man  in  the  Moon  was  his  friend  at  night. 

When  little  Jack's  prayers  were  said, 
And  his  doting  mother  had  dimmed  the  light 

And  cuddled  him  up  in  bed, 
He'd  lie  and  talk  to  his  friend  in  the  skies 

Through  the  casement  open  wide, 
And  ask  if  the  stars  were  not  the  eyes 

Of  good  little  boys  who  had  died. 

O !  the  Moon-Man  laughed  at  this  odd  conceit 

Of  his  little  boy  friend  on  earth. 
And  the  wee  stars,  clustered  about  his  feet, 

Just  winked  at  his  childish  mirth. 
But  once  when  the  moon  rose  over  the  hill 

And  shone  on  the  cottage  wall. 
The  birds  in  the  neighboring  trees  were  still 

And  a  gloom  hung  over  all. 
Then  the  Moon-Man  wondered  much  of  Jack, 

And  he  pondered  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
Till  he  saw  two  stars  in  the  sky  at  his  back 

That  he  never  had  seen  before. 


CANZONI  ii§ 


ALL'S  WELL 

NOW  fared  the  fight  with  thee  to-day? 
Not  well?    Ah,  nay, 
Thou  hast  not  lost;  thou  can'st  not  lose, 
However  much  they  tear  and  bruise 
The  panting  breast,  the  straining  thews 

Which  are  thy  spirit's  citadel, 
If  thou  and  Faith,  upon  the  walls. 
Are  comrades  still  when  darkness  falls. 

Rest  now!    In  sleep  thy  veins  shall  swell 

With  Hope's  new  wine;  and  like  a  bell 
From  valleys  deep  heard  on  the  height, 
Thy  'leagured  soul,  throughout  the  night, 

Shall  call  to  thee:  "  All's  well!  " 

It  is  thyself  alone  that  may 

Thyself  betray. 
Arise  again!    Arise  and  fight! 
God's  smile  is  in  the  morning  light; 
Lift  thou  thy  banner  brave  and  bright 

Above  thy  spirit's  citadel! 
What  matter  if  its  fall  be  sure? 
The  pilgrim  soul  thy  walls  immure. 

Clinging  the  wings  of  Azrael, 


I20  CANZONI 


In  face  of  all  the  hordes  of  hell, 
Shall  take,  full-armed,  its  homeward  flight, 
And  o'er  thy  ruins,  from  the  height, 

Shall  call  to  thee:  "  AlPs  well!  " 


CANZONI  121 


TO  A  VIOLINIST 

APPLAUSE!    A  rapturous  burst 
^    Spreads  downward  from  the  gods,  who  see 
you  first 
As  you  come  bouncing  in, 
A  little  fat,  unconscious  harlequin.  ... 
Clutching  your  fiddle  in  your  hand, 
Now  in  midstage  you  stand, 
Bobbing  and  bowing,  stiffly,  jerkily. 
To  left,  to  right,  to  left. 

And  never  for  a  moment  still. 
We,  in  the  stalls,  we  smile  to  see 

How  droll  you  look;  and  even  when  your  deft, 
Quick  fingers  rouse  the  charm'd  strings  to 

your  will. 
The  laughter,  lurking  in  our  lashes  still, 
Beats  back  the  elfin  voices  at  our  ears. 

How  like  a  boat  your  violin  appears 
As,  under  lowered  lids,  our  listless  eyes 
Watch  its  alternate  rise  and  fall  and  rise. 
Where,  as  the  music  sways,  it  seems  to  be 
Tossed  by  the  tempests  on  a  fairy  sea.  .    .    . 
And  this  strange  sense,  this  sense  of  finer  air 


122  CANZONI 


That,  like  a  tide  at  flood,  is  everywhere, 
Bearing  up  from  depths  unfathomed  voices  long 

imprisoned  there. 
Voices  of  the  singing  birds  that  flattered  unto 

happy  tears 
Lovers  lingering  in  the  twilights  of  how  many 

thousand  years! 
Voices  moaning  and  intoning  of  old  sorrows, 

hopes  and  fears! 
Sounds  of  waves  on  craggy  beaches  and  of  winds 

that  shout  above, 
Melting,  dwindle  to  a  murmur,  like  the  cooing  of 

the  dove. 
Rise  again  and,  waxing  stronger,  swejU  into  a 

chant  of  love. 
Round  and  round  the  waves  of  music  sweep 

through  this  enchanted  place. 
Catch  the  souls  come  forth  to  listen,  trembling  on 

each  hearer's  face. 
Draw  them  on  and  whirl  them  swiftly,  lightly 

through  the  fields  of  space. 
Till  the  music  and  its  maker  and  the  hearers  are 

as  one — 
And  the  masterwork  is  done! 

Applause,  spontaneous,  springs, 
Pursues  you  to  the  wings 


CANZONI  123 


And  hales  you  out  once  more. 
Encore!    Encore!    Encore! 
Come  back  and  bow,  bow,  bow — 
You  are  not  comic  now^ 


124  CANZONI 


TO  THE  CITY  UNBEAUTIFUL 

THEY  are  gone!     O!  implacable  City, 
Twixt  a  night  and  a  night, 
With  no  pang  of  regret  or  of  pity. 

You  have  slain  them  outright. 
Though  their  beauty  besought  you  to  spare  it, 
To  keep  it  forever  and  wear  it 

For  your  own  and  your  children's  delight. 
You  have  fattened  your  greed  and  you  merit 
The  squalor  your  streets  shall  inherit. 

In  their  innocent  glory  and  grace, 
They,  the  primeval  lords  of  the  place. 
Ere  your  earliest  highway  was  trod. 
Had  grown  old  in  the  service  of  God; 
And  with  arms  lifted  up,  as  in  prayer, 
Gave  Him  thanks  for  the  sunlight  and  air, 
For  the  nourishing  moss  at  their  feet; 
And  the  thrushes  that  made  their  retreat 
In  the  heart  of  this  Eden  so  long. 
For  their  lodging  gave  tribute  of  song. 
E'en  the  violets,  dotting  the  sward. 
Breathing  perfume  of  prayer  to  the  Lord, 
Paid  in  full  for  their  leasehold;  but  you — 
In  the  service  of  Mammon,  you  grew 


CANZONI  125 


To  a  huddle  of  houses  and  mills, 

Spreading  squalor  through  hollows  and  hills, 

Till  your  grimy  arms  reached  through  your 

smoke 
To  this  grove  of  the  Poplar  and  Oak. 

They  are  gone!    O!  implacable  City, 

Twixt  a  night  and  a  night, 
With  no  pang  of  regret  or  of  pity. 

You  have  slain  them  outright. 
Though  their  beauty  besought  you  to  spare  it, 
To  keep  it  forever  and  wear  it 

For  your  own  and  your  children's  delight. 
You  have  fattened  your  greed  and  you  merit 
The  squalor  your  streets  shall  inherit. 


126  CANZONI 


A  SONG  FOR  FEBRUARY 

EBRUARY! 

Chilly,  chary 

Of  the  vistas  visionary 
Through  savannas  blue  and  airy, 
Where  the  fancy  seeks  to  see 
Promise  of  the  days  to  be! 
Little  sun  and  little  blue 
Pierce  your  dull,  gray  mantle  through; 
Saddest  of  our  months  are  you, 

February. 

Out  upon  you!    We  will  sing 
To  another,  kindlier  thing, 
Hoping  that  our  song  may  bring 
Some  returning,  flashing  wing 
Which  is  augural  of  spring 

To  the  heavens'  brightening  arch. 
Come,  then,  forward  from  the  South 
Birds  with  music  in  the  mouth! 
Forward!  all  ye  sleeping  seeds. 
Forward !  brooks  among  your  reeds, 
Violets  and  eglantine, 
Forward!  all  along  the  line, 

March! 


CANZONI  127 


THE  BIRTH-MONTH 

IN  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Gemini,  my  stars,  are  swinging 
Midmost  in  the  great  sun's  way; 

And  the  marching  planets,  bringing 
Once  again  my  natal  day, 

Strangely  stir  my  heart  to  singing 
In  the  merry  month  of  May. 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Life  and  all  it  holds  is  dearer; 

Be  the  zenith  blue  or  gray — 
Possibly  my  vision's  clearer 

Now  than  ever,  who  shall  say? — 
Heaven,  to  me,  seems  surer,  nearer. 

In  the  merry  month  of  May. 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Closer  than  my  birth-stars,  o'er  me 

Broods  a  spirit,  bright  as  they; 
Spirit  potent  to  restore  me, 

Blessing  still  my  natal  day — 
She,  the  sainted  one  who  bore  me 

In  the  merry  month  of  May! 


128  CANZONI 


A  SONG  FOR  JUNE 

OUR  purse,  my  dear,  is  flat 
(It  never  yet  was  fat), 
Our  garments  worn  and  sere 
(They  were  the  same  last  year). 
And  frugally  we  dine 
(Who  never  craved  for  wine). 
Admitting  that, 

O!  why,  my  dear, 
Repine? 
The  merry  world's  in  tune. 
And  fruits  and  flowers  thrive 
And  robins  sing,  like  mad: 
"  Ho !  it  is  June, 
And  we're  alive; 
Be  glad!  " 

Here  are  we,  still  together 
(And  richer  by  the  weather) ; 
There's  nothing  we  would  borrow 
(0!  certainly  not  sorrow). 
But  just  what  Heaven  lends  us 
(This  blue  sky  that  attends  us), 
Why  care  a  feather 
What  the  morrow 
Sends  us? 


CANZONI  129 


This  golden  afternoon 
Bees  buzz  about  the  hive 
And  robins  sing,  like  mad: 
"  Ho !  it  is  June, 
And  we're  alive; 
Be  glad!  " 


I30  CANZONI 


THE  VETERAN  MARCHING  ALONE 

WHEN  t±ie  Post  turns  out  to-morrow 
To  honor  our  martial  dead, 
Let  them  count  me  among  the  absent, 

Let  them  reckon  me  ill  in  bed; 
Yet  gallant  shall  be  my  marching 
And  holy  the  ground  I  tread. 

I  have  vaunted  too  long  my  valor 

And  the  valor  of  other  men; 
But  the  wisdom  my  years  denied  me — 

My  threescore  years  and  ten — 
The  dream  of  a  night  has  supplied  me: 

I  never  shall  march  again! 

For  this  was  the  sleep-wrought  vision 

That  came  to  me  in  my  bed: 
I  was  dead;  I  had  passed  in  battle 

And  my  warrior-soul  had  fled 
To  the  field  of  the  last  great  muster. 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

I  was  one  of  the  countless  millions, 

The  heroes  of  many  lands; 
Pale  spirits  who  stood  in  silence 

Awaiting  the  Lord's  commands, 
The  vanquished  like  to  the  victors 

With  drooping  palms  in  their  hands. 


CANZONI  131 


Then  a  great  voice  swept  above  us, 
And  it  winnowed  us  like  a  wind, 

Crying:  "  Ye  who  have  suffered  in  battle 
And  given  to  help  your  kind. 

Ye  shall  find  the  greater  before  ye 
And  the  lesser  givers  behind!  " 

Then  I  looked  behind  and  about  me 
And  rejoiced  that  my  rank  was  good, 

Far  back  as  my  gaze  could  fathom 
Was  a  knightly  brotherhood; 

Then  I  turned  to  the  ranks  before  me, 
Where  the  greatest  of  givers  stood. 

And  lo !  where  the  clouds  of  glory 
Encompassed  the  God  of  War, 

There  were  numberless  legions  of  women 
All  standing  His  throne  before. 

And  each,  in  her  wan  arms  lifted, 
A  living  child  upbore! 

Then  the  palms  in  my  hand  were  withered 
And  I  wept  in  the  dark,  alone; 

And  I  thought  of  a  long-dead  woman. 
Whose  giving  outweighed  my  own, 

And  I  thought  of  the  grave  that  held  her 
Unmarked  of  flower  or  stone. 


132  CANZONI 


When  the  Post  turns  out  to-morrow 
To  honor  our  martial  dead, 

Let  them  count  me  among  the  absent, 

.  Let  them  reckon  me  ill  in  bed; 

Yet  gallant  shall  be  my  marching 
And  holy  the  ground  I  tread. 


CANZONI  133 


THE  BIRTH  O'  TAM  O'  SHANTER 

[To  a  friendly  challenge  from  Captain  Grose  we  are 
indebted  for  this  admirable  masterpiece  (Tarn  o'  Shanter). 
Burns  having  entreated  him  to  make  honorable  mention  of 
Alloway  Kirk  in  his  Antiquities  of  Scotland,  he  promised 
compliance  with  the  request  upon  condition  that  the  poet 
should  supply  him  with  a  metrical  witch  story  as  an  ac- 
companiment to  the  engraving.  Mrs.  Burns  it  was  who 
related  to  Kromek  the  marvelous  rapidity  with  which  this 
poem  was  produced.  According  to  her,  it  was  the  work 
of  a  single  day,  *  *  *  as  Alexander  Smith  puts  it,  with 
an  exultant  chuckle,  the  best  day's  work  ever  done  in  Scot- 
land since  Bruce  won  Bannockburn.  Burns,  during  the 
early  part  of  that  memorable  day,  had  passed  the  time 
alone  in  pacing  his  favorite  walk,  upon  the  river  bank. 
Thither  in  the  afternoon  he  was  followed  by  his  "  bonnie 
Jean"  and  some  of  their  children.  Finding  that  he  was 
"  crooning  to  himself,"  and  fearing  lest  their  presence  might 
be  an  interruption,  his  considerate  wife  loitered  some  little 
distance  behind  among  the  bloom  and  heather  with  her 
brood  of  young  ones.  There  her  attention  was  caught  by 
the  poet's  impassioned  gesticulations.  She  could  hear  him 
repeating  aloud,  while  the  tears  ran  down  his  face:  "Now, 
Tam!  O,  Tam!  had  they  been  queans."  Toward  evening, 
when  the  storm  of  composition  had  fairly  run  out.  Burns, 
we  are  told  by  M'Diarmid,  committed  the  verses  to  writing 
upon  the  top  of  a  sod  dyke,  overhanging  the  river;  and 
directly  they  were  completed  rushed  indoors  to  read  them 
aloud  by  the  fireside  in  a  tone  of  rapturous  exultation.] — 
Rev.  Dr.  J.  Loughran  Scott,  in  the  Alloway  Edition  of 
Burns*  Works. 

[Read  before  the  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis  on  January  25, 
1916]. 


134  CAN20NI 


HOW  broke  the  east  upon  that  day, 
In  j&re  and  blood  or  ashes  gray? 
And  did  a  rich  or  niggard  boon 
Of  sunlight  gild  the  Nith  at  noon? 
Who  knows  or  cares?    For  on  that  morning, 
When  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  without  warning, 
Came  gloriously  down  to  earth, 
The  river,  singing  at  his  birth, 
Wore  on  its  face  a  mystic  light; 
For  in  that  moment  reached  its  height 
The  lyric  fire,  the  dying  flare 
From  out  the  heart  of  Burns  of  Ayr! 

01  little  Nith!    O!  happy  river. 

You  shall  not  lose  that  gleam  forever; 

Your  waves,  whatever  moods  betide  them. 

Shall  sing  of  him  who  walked  beside  them 

And  from  his  great  heart  wove  a  story 

That  was  the  crown  upon  his  glory. 

And  on  that  morning  when  he  came 

With  frenzied  eye  and  cheek  aflame 

To  feast  his  soul  upon  the  food 

That  poets  find  in  solitude, 

What  was  the  charm  you  held  him  with, 

O!  helpful  little  river  Nith? 

Ah,  well  I  know  the  way  you  did  it! 

I  shall  not  mince  nor  gloss  the  credit, 


CANZONI  135 


But,  auditing  the  dim  dead  past, 
Shall  here  set  down  your  score  at  last. 

To  you,  that  morning  (Who  shall  care 

If  skies  above  were  dull  or  fair?) 

The  poet,  seeking  comfort,  brought 

His  fecund  fancy,  big  with  thought. 

Beside  your  bonnie  banks  he  walked. 

And  ever  as  he  went  he  talked 

The  quaint,  blithe  things  that  thronged  his  brain 

And  conned  them  o'er  and  o'er  again; 

And  presently  the  liquid  laughter 

Of  pleasant  waters  gurgled  after, 

And,  as  a  voice  by  harp  attended, 

With  borrowed  beauty  grows  more  splendid, 

So  waxed  the  poet's  budding  song 

Where  light  your  ripples  leaped  along. 

You  smiled  and  danced  and  made  your  measures 

To  match  his  song  of  ale-house  pleasures. 

Where  Tam  and  cronies  came  to  mingle 

Beside  their  comfortable  ingle; 

But  when  the  "  reaming  swats  "  came  thicker 

And  Robin's  tongue,  that  sang  of  liquor, 

Grew  overloud  and  full  of  yearning, 

No  doubt  you  set  your  rapids  churning, 

To  draw  his  thoughts  from  off  the  "  nappy  " 

And  keep  him  singing,  blithe  and  happy. 


136  CAN20NI 


Then,  when  he  pushed  those  joys  aside 
And  sallied  forth  with  Tarn  to  ride, 
(For  well  you  know  that  Tarn  o'  Shanter 
Was  not  alone  upon  that  canter) 
How  well  again  his  mood  was  fellowed! 
Among  your  rocks  the  thunder  bellowed; 
Your  spray  upon  the  light  breeze  passed 
For  "  rattlin'  showers  upon  the  blast "; 
You  made  the  "  Doon  pour  all  his  floods," 
The  '"  doubling  storm  roar  through  the  woods  "; 
And  somewhere  in  your  shadows  lurk 
The  dancers  in  the  ruined  kirk. 

But  when  that  dance  grew  wild  and  furious 

And  Tam,  with  watching,  much  too  curious; 

And  Robin,  prattling  of  the  "  queans, 

A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens," 

Seemed  bent  on  lingering  overlong, 

I  like  to  think  that  then  the  song 

In  all  your  rippling  waves  you  stilled. 

As  by  the  breath  of  winter  chilled. 

That  Robin,  in  the  pause,  might  hear 

His  "  bonnie  Jean  "  and  children  near; 

And  draw  his  thoughts  from  "  sarks  o*  flannel " 

And  back  into  the  proper  channel. 


CANZONI  137 


Then  with  your  song  and  liquid  laughter 
You  rose  again  to  follow  after, 
With  O!  what  sympathetic  feeling, 
Where  faithful  Meg,  the  mare,  goes  reeling 
Across  the  bridge  that  spans  the  flood, 
By  all  the  ghostly  crew  pursued, 
And  carries  off  her  master,  hale, 
But  leaves  behind  her  own  grey  tail. 

And  when  the  day  was  done  you  knew 
The  poet's  exaltation,  too; 
'Twas  yours  at  fall  of  dusk  to  share 
The  calm  that  soothed  the  Bard  of  Ayr, 
And  through  the  night,  O  happy  stream! 
You  were  a  music  in  his  dream. 
There,  musing  by  some  mossy  stone, 
Perhaps,  ah,  yes,  you  must  have  known 
That  though  again  upon  your  shore 
The  poet  still  would  walk,  no  more 
Would  Time  bring  round  to  you  the  bliss 
Of  any  day  to  match  with  this — 
The  very  cap-sheaf  on  the  past, 
The  greatest  labor  and  the  last. 

Oh !  in  the  fire  of  that  one  day 
How  many  years  were  burned  away? 
And  in  the  torrents  of  his  tears 


138  CANZONI 


Were  lost  how  many  unborn  years? 

For  this  man  took  life's  cup  and  laughed 

And  strove  to  drain  it  at  a  draught, 

What  tragedy  was  in  this  mirth, 

O!  river,  singing  at  its  birth? 

What  holocaust  was  in  the  light 

With  which  your  morning  face  was  bright? 

O!  little  Nith!    0!  happy  river, 
You  shall  not  lose  that  gleam  forever; 
Your  waves,  whatever  moods  betide  them. 
Shall  sing  of  him  who  walked  beside  them 
And  from  his  great  heart  wove  a  story 
That  was  the  crown  upon  his  glory! 


CANZONI  139 


SUMMER'S  SWAN-SONG 
HAVE  ye  seen  Rogue  Autumn? 


O! 


•   He's  hiding  hereabout 
To  rob  me  of  my  green  domain 

And  put  my  birds  to  rout. 
He's  marshaling  his  army; 

The  skirmishers  are  out. 
"  All's  well!    All's  well!  "  the  katydids, 

His  nightly  pickets,  shout. 

Rogue  Autumn,  bold  pretender. 

Conspiring  with  the  sun. 
Is  working  in  the  morning  mists 

That  I  may  be  undone. 
Already  through  my  fields  and  woods 

The  fires  of  treason  run; 
My  myriad  leaves  are  putting  on 

His  colors,  one  by  one. 

Thy  breath  at  night,  Rogue  Autumn, 
Strikes  chill  upon  my  brow; 

My  crown  uneasy  rests  upon 
The  head  I  soon  must  bow. 


140  CANZONI 


Take  thou  thy  spoil!    But  there  will  come 

A  mightier  than  thou, 
Whose  winds  shall  pierce  and  break  thy 
heart, 

As  mine  is  breaking  nowl 


CANZONI  141 


A  SUMMER  IDYLL 

THE  scene:  A  public  city  square, 
With  crowded  benches  here  and  there. 
The  time:  A  drowsy  afternoon, 
Charged  with  the  heady  wine  of  June. 
Chief  actors:  Voice,  Law's  voice,  supreme 
And  harsh  with  petty  power:  and  Dream, 
A  vagrant  sprite  that  stops  to  play 
'Round  one  old  head  unkempt  and  gray. 

The  Dream: 

Ah!  rest.    How  far  off  seems  the  street — 
Its  heat  still  tingles  in  my  feet. 
But  Lord!  how  sweet  this  is,  how  sweet! — 
And  O!  the  shade,  this  blessed  shade 
That  all  the  little  leaves  have  made — 
The  little  leaves — they're  whispering  now — 
Whispering?    They're  singing  on  the  bough! 
How  clear  and  sweet  the  whole  tree  sings — 
Tree?    It's  a  golden  bird  with  wings! 
How  soft  its  back  is!    Sweet  to  lie 
Snug  in  its  feathers  here  and  fly 
Where  Heaven  is  so  wide  and  clear — 


142  CANZONI 


The  Voice: 
Hey!    Set  up  straight;  ye  can't  sleep  here! 

The  Dream: 
.    .    .  The  nurse-maid  smiled, 
But  she  looked  kind;  so  did  the  child. 
What  dimpled  cheeks!  so  round,  so  fair, 
Like  peaches.  .    .    .  Peaches,  everywhere! 
Wait,  little  boy,  don't  climb  the  trees. 
See  how  the  fruit  swings  in  the  breeze. 
Lie  here  with  me  until  they  fall.  . 
Here  where  the  grass  is  thick  and  tall, 
Stretch  yourself  out  and  lie  at  ease. 
Don't  shake!  don't  shake!  don't  shake  the 

trees! 
Here  they  come  pelting  down  like  rain — 

The  Voice: 
Here,  Bo!  I  warn  ye  onct  again. 

The  Dream: 
....  His  coat  is  blue, 
Yet  Heaven  has  the  self -same  hue; 
How  odd;    .    .    .  His  belt  looks  tight  in  back. 
And  mine — it  never  was  so  slack. 
Somewhere,  somewhere,  there's  bread  and 
meat; 


CANZONI  143 


Somewhere,  perhaps,  but  then  the  street — 
If  I  could  wet  my  face  and  hair 
With  water  from  that  fountain  there — 
How  sparkingly  the  ripples  bre^k, 
And  what  a  pleasant  sound  they  make! 
Drip!   drip!    ...  the  mill-wheel  turns  so 

slow, 
So  slow,  so  slow — Ah!  there's  a  fish! 
He's  in  the  net!    Now  for  a  dish 
That  any  royal  king  might  wish!    .    .   . 
O!  peaceful  pipe  beside  the  fire — 
The  moon's  up  now  and  rising  higher. 
Snug  is  the  camp,  crisp-cool  the  night, 
The  embers  flare  up,  warm  and  bright! 
The  waves  of  heat  that  beat,  beat,  beat, 
Upon  the  weary,  way-worn  feet — 

The  Voice: 

I  warned  you  twice  an'  now  you're  done. 
Git  out  o'  here!    Move  on!  move  on! 


144  CANZONI 


"  ADA  RERAN  IS  DEAD  " 

THOSE  few  lines  on  the  printed  page 
Call  up  for  me  a  darkened  stage.  .    .    . 
And  Fancy  in  the  shadowy  wings 
Paints  ghosts  of  dear,  once  happy  things — 
Bright  elves  which  in  that  place  had  birth 
Of  clear-eyed  Truth  and  frolic  Mirth, 
And,  having  filled  their  hour  of  grace. 
Now,  mute,  on  tiptoe,  haunt  the  place.  .    .    . 
Nor  light  nor  any  sound  is  there 
To  strike  across  the  brooding  air, 
But  still  a  sense  above  it  all 
Of  something  evil  to  befall.  .    .    . 
Then  sounds,  off-stage,  one  tap — no  more — 
As  of  a  knuckle  on  a  door, 
And  with  the  sound  a  gust  upblows. 
Chill  as  the  breath  of  Arctic  snows; 
The  grisly  call-boy  in  the  dark 
Is  waiting  at  the  threshold.    Hark! 
He  speaks!     His  tones  sepulchral  frame 
The  loved,  but  half-forgotten,  name. 
A  brave,  sweet  voice  makes  answering  hail, 
And  merging  with  it  breaks  a  wail 
Of  sobbing  in  the  upper  air.  .    .    . 
A  thin  light  stabs  the  dark— and  there 


CANZONI  145 


A  youth — nay,  but  the  merest  boy — 
Who  loved  this  Priestess  of  Pure  Joy, 
Leans  from  the  gallery  and  peers 
Down,  stageward,  through  a  mist  of  tears. 
The  weeping  stops;  the  last  faint  note 
Chokes  back  into  my  aching  throat, 
For  in  this  boyish  mourner  see 
The  lad  that  once  I  used  to  be.  .    .    . 

With  all  a  boy's  abandonment 

I  loved  her  then,  this  Heaven-sent 

Interpreter  of  all  the  moods 

And  womanly  beatitudes. 

I  loved  her  graceful  ways  and  each 

Delicious  little  trick  of  speech 

That  marked  her  dearer  than  the  rest, 

But  O!  my  heart  was  happiest 

In  this,  which  in  that  heart  I  knew: 

That  she  was  wholly  sweet  and  true.  .    . 

I  mourn  for  her,  but  are  these  tears 

Not  also  for  the  buried  years? 

And  for  the  thought  that  with  her  dies 

Another  of  the  crumbling  ties 

Between  me  and  my  happy  youth? 

Ah,  yes,  I  know  it,  and  the  truth 

Makes  sudden  riot  in  the  heart, 

Where  once  she  queened  it  with  her  art. 


146  CANZONI 


YESTERDAY'S  RAIN 

A  SUNDAY  misty  and  wet 
Moves  us  to  chafe  and  complain, 
Robbed  of  our  outing,  and  yet 

Came  there  in  yesterday's  rain — 
Light  as  the  spray  of  the  sea, 

Soft  as  the  dropping  of  dew — 
So  many  blessings  to  me, 
Surely  you  noticed  them,  too. 

Windows  fronting  the  East 

Bare  of  shutter  and  pane, 
Took,  as  the  light  increased, 

Silver  driftings  of  rain. 
Slowly  the  moisture  crept 

Over  my  pillow  and  bed 
Drowning  the  dream  I'd  kept 

Warm  in  my  drowsy  head.  .    .    . 

There  to  me  came,  as  I  lay. 

Out  of  the  neighboring  woods 
Waking  sounds  of  the  day. 

Calls  of  the  solitudes; 
Thrushes  caroling  near, 

Church-bells  over  the  hill. 
The  whine  of  the  housedog  here 

Under  my  window-sill — 


CANZONI  147 


But  over  and  through  it  all 

The  liquid  laughter  of  leaves 
Glad  for  the  gifts  that  fall 

Over  the  world's  wide  eaves, 
Glad  for  the  cleansing  rain, 

Drenching  branches  and  sod. 
Suckling  the  ripening  grain. 

Plumping  beans  in  the  pod.  .    . 

Possibly,  so  I  thought. 

These  are  the  tears  of  the  bless'd 
Shed  for  a  world  distraught 

By  hatreds  and  wild  unrest; 
This  is  a  holy  rain 

Cleansing  the  blood-stained  sod. 
Bringing  to  earth  again 

Peace  and  the  smile  of  God.  .    . 

Call  it  a  mood  if  you  will, 

Call  it  my  fancy  alone; 
That  may  account  for  it;  still. 

Possibly  others  may  own 
Share  in  this  little  refrain, 

Share  in  the  blessings  I  drew 
Out  of  the  mist  and  the  rain. 

Surely,  you  noticed  them,  too. 


148  CANZONI 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SEA 

MARK  and  chart  my  midmost  foam; 
Catch  and  hold  my  spindrift's  snow. 
Is  there  under  God's  wide  dome 
Anything  doth  freer  go 
Than  my  pulsing  to  and  fro? 
Save  for  the  eternal  One, 

Unto  whom  my  all  I  owe, 
Lord  or  mistress  have  I  none. 

All  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome 

Barely  set  my  face  aglow; 
Earth  it  won  and  made  its  home; 

But  my  waves,  unbridled  so. 

Over  buried  cities  flow. 
Save  for  the  eternal  One, 

Unto  whom  my  all  I  owe. 
Lord  or  mistress  have  I  none. 

Spanish  Philip's  vaunt  the  gloom 
Of  my  coral  depths  below 

Holds  in  age-forgotten  doom. 
Me  may  other  braggarts  know 
Their  most  sure  and  potent  foe. 


CANZONI  149 


Save  for  the  eternal  One, 

Unto  whom  my  all  I  owe, 
Lord  or  mistress  have  I  none. 


Prince,  thy  pride  may  get  thee  woe! 

Save  for  the  eternal  One, 
Unto  whom  my  all  I  owe. 

Lord  or  mistress  have  I  none. 


150  CANZONI 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MARCH  WIND 

1AM  the  minstrel,  the  maker  of  mirth, 
And  the  forest  my  harp  is: 
From  the  fibres  asleep  in  the  heart  of  the  earth, 
Where  its  woof  and  its  warp  is, 
I  fashion  the  spring 
With  the  song  that  I  singl 

I,  that  am  breathed  of  the  mouth  of  my  God, 

Am  His  music  in  motion; 
And  His  breath  on  my  winds  shakes  the  slumber- 
ing sod 
And  the  floor  of  the  ocean; 

And  I  fashion  the  spring 
With  the  song  that  I  sing! 

I  am  the  breath  of  your  nostrils,  O'manl 

And  akin  to  your  spirit; 
But  our  God's  voice  was  mine  ere  your  singing 
began. 
So  rejoice  when  you  hear  it; 

For  I  bring  you  the  spring 
With  the  song  that  I  sing! 


CANZONI  151 


DARBY  AND  JOAN 

THEY  come  into  the  parlor  car 
And  take  their  seats  beside  me. 
How  very  commonplace  they  are! 

I  know  my  wife  would  chide  me, 
And  call  it  rude  of  me  to  stare 

At  this  old  man  and  woman, 
But,  since  they  do  not  seem  to  care, 

Why  shouldn't  I  be  human? 
I've  read  my  paper  through  and  through- 

There's  mighty  little  in  it — 
And  so  I've  nothing  else  to  do 

But  watch  them  for  a  minute. 
They  offer  little  promise,  though. 

Of  charm  to  the  beholder; 
I  judge  her  sixty-five  or  so, 

And  he  a  trifle  older.  .   .   . 

I've  watched  them  for  a  hundred  miles  I 

I'd  watch  another  hundred, 
To  share  the  paradise  that  smiles 

Around  them!    How  I  blundered. 
To  call  this  couple  commonplace. 

Youth's  glory  and  Romance's 
Play  sunnily  about  each  face 

And  glimmer  in  their  glances. 


152  CANZONI 


His  heart,  a  bee  above  the  flower, 

Around  her  form  is  flitting, 
And  she — how  well  she  knows  her  power! — 

She  snares  it  in  her  knitting. 
Here's  Love  that  is  forever  new, 

That  feasts  and  still  doth  hunger — 
Ah!  he's  eternal  twenty-two 

And  she  a  trifle  younger. 

Let  my  love,  Lord,  for  my  mate  grow 

Thus  god-like,  to  enfold  her, 
When  she  is  three-score-ten  or  so, 

And  I  a  trifle  older. 


CANZONI  153 


THE  VILLAGE  POET 

WHENEVER  it's  a  Saturday—oh,  long  be- 
fore the  dew 
Is  drunken  by  the  golden  sun  that  climbs  the 

cloudless  blue, 
Almost  before  the  nested  birds  have  started  in  to 

stir, 
I  rise  an  hour  earlier  and  take  a  walk  with  HER. 

I  wonder  if  you  realize  the  joy — ^and  joy  to 

spare — 
The  May-time  morning  carries  in  its  lilac-laden 

air; 
I  wonder  if  you  know  what  lyric  breezes  are  about 
To  take  the  trees  and  shake  their  lovely  leafy 

banners  out, 
To  fill  the  winds  with  music  and  to  blow  a 

vagrant  tress 
Across  your  cheek,  that  burns  at  such  unwonted 

wantonness. 
Of  course  you  cannot  know  all  this.    You  would, 

though,  if  you  were 
To  rise  an  hour  earlier  and  take  a  walk  with 

HER. 


154  CANZONI 


I  wonder  if  you  know  what  joys,  when  morning's 

gates  unlock, 
The  winds  of  May  blow  round  the  world  'twixt 

dawn  and  six  o'clock. 
I  wonder  that  with  droning  nose  above  your 

blanket's  hem 
You  lie  there  in  the  growing  light,  oblivious  to 

them. 
How  can  you  be  a  slug-a-bed  and  soak  yourself 

in  sleep 
When  there  are  in  the  dewy  dells  sweet  trystings 

you  might  keep? 
Oh  I  If  you'd  know  the  best  of  joys  of  all  that 

ever  were 
You'd  rise  an  hour  earlier  and  take  a  walk  with 

HER. 

That's  why  when  it's  a  Saturday — oh,  long  before 

the  dew 
Is  drunken  by  the  golden  sun  that  climbs  the 

cloudless  blue. 
Almost  before  the  nested  birds  have  started  in  to 

stir, 
I  rise  an  hour  earlier  and  take  a  walk  with  HER. 


CANZONI  155 


A  SONG  TO  ONE 

IF  few  are  won  to  read  my  lays 
And  offer  me  a  word  of  praise, 
If  there  are  only  one  or  two 
To  take  my  rhymes  and  read  them  through, 
I  may  not  claim  the  poet's  bays. 

I  care  not,  when  my  Fancy  plays 
Its  one  sweet  note,  if  it  should  raise 
A  host  of  listeners  or  few — 
If  you  are  one. 

The  homage  that  my  full  heart  pays 
To  Womanhood  in  divers  ways. 

Begins  and  ends,  my  love,  in  you. 

My  lines  may  halt,  but  strong  and  true 
My  soul  shall  sing  through  all  its  days. 
If  you  are  won. 


SONGS  OF  WEDLOCK 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK         159 


THE  PERFECT  SOLITUDE 

WHEN,  sick  at  heart  and  weary  of  my  kind 
And  of  the  day-long  traffic,  I  would  find 
The  peace  and  healing  touch  of  solitude, 
I  envy  no  lone  eremite  who  stands. 
Sealed  up  with  silence  on  the  desert  sands, 

Where  never  murmurs  of  the  world  intrude. 
I  know  a  sweeter  place,  a  holier  bower 
For  the  enshrining  of  the  quiet  hour. 

Mine  is  a  solitude  that  two  may  share, 
A  lamp-lit  table,  with  an  easy  chair 

At  either  end,  a  friendly  book  for  each, 
And — save  for  clock-ticks  pulsing  in  the  room — 
Sweet  silence;  but  a  silence  that  may  bloom, 

At  her  will  or  at  mine,  to  loving  speech. 
This  is  the  dearest  place,  the  holiest  bower 
For  the  enshrining  of  the  quiet  hour. 


i6o         SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 


WHEN  DAY  BEGINS 

WHEN  doth  the  light  of  day  begin, 
And  what  far  gates  first  let  it  in? 
The  calm  deep  blue  of  morning  skies 
Doth  greet  me  earliest  from  your  eyes; 
My  first  warm  glint  of  sunlight  flashes 
Across  the  soft  gold  of  your  lashes; 
And  the  first  breath  of  day  that  thrills 
'Twixt  dawn-flushed  sky  and  waking  hills, 
O'er  pure  mid-ocean's  foam-flecked  reaches. 
O'er  spume-swept  rocks  and  silvern  beaches, 
To  the  near  fields  whose  chaliced  blooms 
Catch  and  distill  the  winds'  perfumes 
To  honey-dew  that  wild  bees  sip, 

Is  not  so  pure. 

So  quick,  so  sure 
As  the  warm  kiss  upon  your  lip — 
The  golden  kiss  which  is  the  key 
That  opes  the  day  for  me. 


SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK         i6i 

TO  A  JHRUSH 

SING  clear,  O!  throstle, 
Thou  golden-tongued  apostle 
And  little  brown-frocked  brother 

Of  the  loved  Assisian! 
Sing  courage  to  the  mother, 

Sing  strength  into  the  man, 
For  they,  who  in  another  May 

Trod  Hope's  scant  wine  from  grapes  of  pain, 
Have  tasted  in  thy  song  to-day 

The  bitter-sweet  red  lees  again. 
To  them  in  whose  say  May-time  thou 
Sang'st  comfort  from  thy  maple  bough. 

To  tinge  the  presaged  dole  with  sweet, 
O!  prophet  then,  be  prophet  now 

And  paraclete! 

That  fateful  May!    The  pregnant  vernal  night 

Was  throbbing  with  the  first  faint  pangs  of  day, 
The  while  with  ordered  urge  toward  life  and  light, 
Earth-atoms  countless  groped  their  destined 
way; 
And  one  full-winged  to  fret 
Its  tender  oubliette, 
The  warding  mother-heart  above  it  woke. 
Darkling  she  lay  in  doubt,  then,  sudden  wise. 


i62         SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 

Whispered  her  husband's  drowsy  ear  and  broke 
The  estranging  seal  of  slumber  from  his  eyes: 
"  My  hour  is  nigh:  arise!  " 

Already,  when,  with  arms  for  comfort  linked, 
The  lovers  at  an  eastward  window  stood, 
The  rosy  day,  in  cloudy  swaddlings,  blinked 
Through  misty  green  new-fledged  in  Wister 
Wood. 
Breathless,  upon  this  birth 
The  still-entranced  earth 
Seemed  brooding,  motionless  in  windless  space. 

Then  rose  thy  priestly  chant,  O!  holy  bird! 
And  heaven  and  earth  were  quickened  with  its 
grace; 
To  tears  two  wedded  souls  were  moved  who 

heard, 
And  one,  unborn,  was  stirred! 

O!  Comforter,  enough  that  from  thy  green 

Hid  tabernacle  in  the  wood's  recess 
To  those  care-haunted  lovers  thou,  unseen, 
Shouldst  send  thy  flame-tipped  song  to  cheer 
and  bless. 
Enough  for  them  to  hear 
And  feel  thy  presence  near; 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK  163 

And  yet  when  he,  regardful  of  her  ease, 

Had  led  her  back  by  brightening  hall  and  stair 

To  her  own  chamber's  quietude  and  peace, 
One  maple-bowered  window  shook  with  rare, 
Sweet  song — and  thou  wert  there! 

Hunter  of  souls!  the  loving  chase  so  nigh 

Those  spirits  twain  had  never  come  before. 
They  saw  the  sacred  flame  within  thine  eye; 
To  them  the  maple's  depths  quick  glory  wore, 
As  though  God's  hand  had  lit 
His  altar  fire  in  it, 
And  made  a  fane,  of  virgin  verdure  pleached, 

Wherefrom  thou  might'st  in  numbers  musical 
Expound    the    age-sweet    words    thy    Francis 
preached 
To  thee  and  thine,  of  God's  benignant  thrall 
That  broodeth  over  all. 

And  they,  athirst  for  comfort,  sipped  thy  song. 

But  drank  not  yet  thy  deeper  homily. 
Not  yet,  but  when  parturient  pangs  grew  strong, 
And  from  its  cell  the  young  soul  struggled 
free — 
A  new  joy,  trailing  grief, 
A  little  crumpled  leaf^ 


i64         SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 

Blighted  before  it  bourgeoned  from  the  stem — 
Thou,  as  the  fabled  robin  to  the  rood, 

Wert  minister  of  charity  to  them ; 
And  from  the  shadows  of  sad  parenthood 
They  heard  and  understood. 

Makes  God  one  soul  a  lure  for  snaring  three? 

Ah!  surely;  so  this  nursling  of  the  nest. 
This  teen-touched  joy,  ere  birth  anoint  of  thee. 

Yet  bears  thy  chrismal  music  in  her  breast. 
Five  Mays  have  come  and  sped 
Above  her  sunny  head, 
And  still  the  happy  song  abides  in  her. 

For  though  on  maimed  limbs  the  body  creeps, 
It  doth  a  spirit  house  whose  pinions  stir 

Familiarly  the  far  cerulean  steeps 

Where  God  His  mansion  keeps. 

So  come,  0!  throstle, 

Thou  golden-tongued  apostle 
And  little  brown-frocked  brother 

Of  the  loved  Assissian! 
Sing  courage  to  the  mother. 

Sing  strength  into  the  man, 
That  she  who  in  another  May 

Came  out  of  heaven,  trailing  care. 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK  165 

May  never  know  that  sometimes  gray 
Earth's  roof  is  and  its  cupboards  bare. 

To  them  in  whose  sad  May-time  thou 

Sang'st  comfort  from  thy  maple  bough, 
To  tinge  the  presaged  dole  with  sweet, 

O!  prophet  then,  be  prophet  now 
And  paraclete! 


i66         SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 


THE  JOURNEY 

YOU  are  so  brave,  so  loyal  and  so  true! 
You  bring  such  sunshine  to  the  last  farewell 
When  some  far  duty  calls  me  forth  from  you, 

What  fears  consume  your  heart  I  cannot  tell; 
Not  mine  to  know  what  prayers  or  teardrops  pour 
From  your  pent  heart,  when  you  have  closed 
the  door. 
But  this  I  know:  How  long,  how  far  I  roam, 

My  honor  and  my  babes  are  safe  with  you 
And  light  and  sweetness  shall  illume  our  home; 
You  are  so  brave,  so  true! 

You  are  so  brave,  so  loyal  and  so  true, 

I  should  be  worse  than  craven  did  I  fail 
To  make  the  last  long  kiss  I  had  from  you 

My  knightly  sword  and  shield  and  triple  mail. 
You  cannot  see,  through  leagues  of  space  that 
part. 

If  passion  or  if  peace  be  in  my  heart, 
But  this  believe:  How  long,  how  far  I  roam, 

Whatever  my  mind  may  plan  or  hands  may  do, 
I  would  be  worthy  to  be  welcomed  home 

By  you,  so  brave,  so  true! 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK  167 

IN  WINTRY  WEATHER 

WHAT  was  the  impulse  wild  that  led  us  forth 
That  boisterous  night, 
When  to  the  gusty  wooing  of  the  North 
The  world  lay  white, 
And  trees  in  icy  mail 
Gave  battle  to  the  gale 
That  armed  them  so? 
What  spell  impelled  us,  dear. 
To  quit  our  ingle's  cheer 
To  frolic  in  the  snow? 

O!  Youth!    01  wild,  sweet  fiire 
That  burnest  brighter,  higher. 
With  strong  and  pure  desire 

At  touch  of  wintry  weather. 
With  equal  flame  inspire 

My  love  and  me  together! 

What  of  the  pale,  gray  years  that  are  to  come 

Upon  us  twain? 
When  nights  tempestuous  then  rage  'round  our 
home 
Will  we  be  fain 
To  pluck  with  fingers  chill 


i68         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 

From  Winter's  heart  the  thrill 

That  now  we  know? 
Shall  either  care,  my  dear, 
To  quit  our  ingle's  cheer 

To  frolic  in  the  snow? 

O!  Age,  when  Youth  is  over, 
And  we,  old  wife  and  lover, 
About  this  hearthstone  hover 

In  wild  and  wintry  weather. 
With  peaceful  memories  cover 

My  love  and  me  together! 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK         169 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  FIREPLACE 

I'M  Home's  heart!    Warmth  I  give  and  light, 
If  you  but  feed  me. 
I  blossom  in  the  winter  night, 
When  most  you  need  me. 

To  melt  your  cares,  to  warm  your  guest, 

My  cheer's  supplied  you; 
But,  O !  to  know  me  at  my  best. 

Hold  Her  beside  you! 


I70         SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 


THE  MOTHER 

SHE  was  so  frail,  my  little  one, 
She  had  not  yet  begun  to  stir 
Her  tiny  limbs;  from  sun  to  sun. 

This  breast,  these  arms  maternal  were 
The  bounded  universe  for  her. 

But  now  far  spaces  feel  her  might. 
And  sad,  sweet  thoughts  of  her  arise 

With  every  sun;  she  stirs  the  night 
With  sighing  winds,  and  from  the  skies 
She  looks  at  me  with  starry  eyes. 


SONGS    OF    WEDLOCK  171 


A  SONG  FOR  JANUARY 

ANEW  door  opens  to  the  fresh,  sweet  air, 
And  one  swings  shut  behind  us. 
Time  still  is  ours !  but  in  the  darkness  there 
WeVe  left  a  little  joy,  a  little  care, 

Whose  ghosts  alone  go  with  us  to  remind  us. 
How  transitory  pleasure  is  and  pain, 
How  brief  may  be  our  faring  ere  we  gain 
One  quiet  nook — our  own  for  evermore — 

And  next  year  may  not  find  us 
With  eager  feet  before  its  opening  door 

When  this  swings  shut  behind  us. 

But  cheer!  Sing  cheer 

To  the  glad  New  Year! 
Come,  blend  your  voice  in  the  chorus! 

Ho !  what  care  we 

Where  the  shut  doors  be? 
Here's  an  opening  door  before  us! 


172  SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 


INSPIRATION 

"  /^OOD  NIGHT/'  and  then  your  candle's 

vJ  feeble  flare 
Went  glimmering  up  the  stair; 

A  door  closed  and  the  house  was  still, 
Slow,  hour  by  hour,  the  night  grew  old. 
And  from  the  smouldering  hearth  the  cold 

Stole  forth  and  laid  its  chill 
On  fingers  weary  of  the  pen. 
On  heart  and  brain  that  had  been  fain 

To  make  a  song  of  cheer. 
For,  oh,  the  summer  warm  and  bright 
You  conjured  in  the  winter  night 
Went  upward  with  your  candlelight, 

Went  with  you  up  the  stair. 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK         173 

THE  SANCTUM 

10RD,  God  of  love,  the  wedded  heart's 
_J    Sure  Comforter, 
O!  make  mine  pure  in  all  its  parts, 

For  Thee  and  Her! 
Pour,  Lord,  the  flood-tide  of  Thy  grace 
Through  all  its  chambers,  and  efface 
Each  secret  thought's  abiding  place. 

I  pray  thee  make 
One  shrine  of  it,  which  Thou  and  she 
May  jointly  share,  that  it  may  be 
Open  to  her.  Lord,  as  to  Thee, 

For  her  dear  sake. 

Lord,  God  of  love,  who  givest  me 

Her  heart  of  fire, 
Long  keep  it  mine,  but  let  it  be 

Not  mine  entire. 
Though  mine  the  honeyed  tenderness, 
That  wells  therein  to  cheer  and  bless 
When  joys  elate  or  cares  depress, 

I  pray  Thee  make 
Thy  secret  shrine  within  its  core. 
Let  me  before  one  close-sealed  door 
Cry  "  Non  sum  dignus  "  o'er  and  o'er 

For  her  dear  sake. 


174         SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 

PERENNIAL  MAY 

MAY  walks  the  earth  again, 
This  old  earth,  and  the  same 
Green  spurts  of  tender  flame 
Burn  now  on  sod  and  tree 
That  burned  when  first  she  came, 
Dear  love,  to  you  and  me. 
If  any  change  there  be — 
A  greater  or  a  less 
Degree  of  loveliness — 
It  is  not  ours  to  see, 
Dear  love, 
Not  ours  to  feel  or  see. 

May  thrills  our  hearts  again, 
These  old  hearts,  and  the  bough 
Burns  not  with  blossoms  now 
That  blow  more  splendidly. 
For,  since  our  wedded  vow 
Made  one  of  you  and  me, 
If  any  change  there  be — 
A  greater  or  a  less 
Degree  of  tenderness — 
It  is  not  ours  to  see, 
Dear  love, 
Not  ours  to  feel  or  see. 


SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK  175 

AT  THE  THRESHOLD 

CARES  of  the  day,  like  a  peddler's  pack, 
Tawdry  and  profitless,  weighing  me  down, 
Burdened  my  brain  and  my  bended  back 

As  I  turned  to  you  out  of  the  town. 
Listlessly,  slowly,  my  laggard  feet, 

Timed  to  the  torpor  of  heart  and  brain. 
Brought  me  at  length  to  the  quiet  street 

With  the  home-light  warm  at  the  pane. 
Then  I  shook  my  cares  from  their  lingering  hold 
And  I  laid  them  there  in  the  outer  cold 

Till  the  workaday  morrow  to  rest, 
For  these  were  things  for  the  teeming  mart. 
And  not  for  your  gentle  breast,  dear  heart. 

Oh!  not  for  your  gentle  breast. 

Wearing  a  smile  that  my  heart  belied. 

Over  the  threshold  I  passed  to  you. 
What  was  the  charm  of  our  ingleside, 

Where  we  dreamed  our  old  dreams  anew? 
What  was  the  spell  of  delight  we  wove 

Out  of  soft  laughter  and  song  and  jest? 
Glamor  of  youth  and  the  old,  old  love 

And  the  peace,  of  your  quiet  breast. 
And,  behold!  when  the  day  is  come  once  more. 


176         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 

And  I  shoulder  my  cares  at  the  outer  door, 

What  miracle  sweet  is  this? 
All  the  burden  I  bear  to  the  teeming  mart 
Is  light  and  sweet  as  your  kiss,  dear  heart, 

Oh!  sweet  as  your  fragrant  kiss. 


SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK  177 


HER  MUSIC 

THY   soul   was   in  thy  fingers  when   they 
strayed 
Among  the  keys,  at  twilight  hour  to-night; 
Then,  winging  with  the  melody  they  made. 

It  soared,  by  mine  companioned,  to  the  height 
Where  holy  Melancholy  sat,  arrayed 

One    length    in    gloom    and    one   all   golden 
bright.  ... 
Thy  soul,  returning,  brought  but  shreds  of  shade; 
Mine  filched  the  golden  light. 

Then,  when  I  smiled  and  would  not  match  thy 
mood 

With  solemn  speech,  thou  sought'st  thy  lonely 
bed. 
But  that  was  hours  agone,  and  thou  hast  wooed 
Forgetfulness  with  tears  so  softly  shed. 
But  I!  How  swift  this  June-night  solitude 

Hath  poured  prophetic  sorrow  on  my  head. 
Here  is  my  soul  stripped  bare,  Promethean  food 

For  one  sharp-taloned  dread. 

Death  is  a  wholesome  thing  for  inward  thought, 
But  not  for  mutual  speech,  dear  heart. 


178         SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 

Oh!  long  may  Azrael  leave  us  twain  unsought; 

But  when  he  comes,  I  pray,  not  thine  the  part, 
Lorn  lingerer  in  years  with  sadness  fraught, 

To  scent  new-broken  earth  with  such  a  start 
And  pang  of  loss  as  June's  sweet  breezes  brought 

To  me  to-night,  dear  heart. 


SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK  179 


THE  CITADEL 

IN  dust  of  petty  war 
My  plume  to-day  was  trailed: 
With  barbs  that  pricked  me  sore 
My  enemy  assailed, 
And  for  the  nonce  prevailed. 
'Twas  his  day,  I  admit. 

But  now  the  west  has  paled 
And  here's  an  end  of  it. 

My  enemy — the  fool! — 

Believes  me  beaten  well. 
With  boasts  and  ridicule 

His  conquest  let  him  tell; 

But  when  the  shadows  fell 
I  rose  up  and  withdrew 

To  this  my  citadel — 
The  quiet  night  and  you! 

Another  day  awaits 

Beyond  the  orient  rim; 
But,  ere  it  opes  its  gates, 

Your  love  shall  mend  my  vim; 

One  day's  defeat  shall  dim 


i8o         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 

Your  faith  in  me  no  whit. 

This  day  belonged  to  him, 
But  here's  an  end  of  it. 

How  fatuous  this  foe, 
Who  wars  in  street  and  mart 

And  hopes  to  lay  me  low, 
Yet  hath  no  venomed  dart, 
Howe'er  it  bite  and  smart, 

To  strike  his  hate  unto 

This  stronghold  of  my  heart — 

The  quiet  night  and  you! 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK         i8i 


A  SONG  FOR  AUGUST 

HERE'S  the  year  on  the  wane. 
There  are  signs  in  the  sky, 
In  the  woods,  on  the  plain, 

That  its  noon  has  gone  by. 
But  the  harvest's  to  gain 

And  the  cool  nights  are  nigh, 
When  the  year's  on  the  wane. 

Here's  the  year  on  the  wane. 

There's  a  hawk  in  the  blue; 
In  the  wheat  a  red  stain 

Where  the  poppy  peeps  through. 
But  there's  bread  in  the  grain 

And  there's  warmth  o'  love,  too. 
When  the  year's  on  the  wane. 

Here's  the  year  on  the  wane. 

From  the  night-shrouded  hill, 
Comes  the  katydid's  strain. 

And  the  wind's  whistle  shrill. 
But  two  hearts  may  contain 

All  the  spring's  music  still, 
When  the  year's  on  the  wane. 


i82         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 


LOVE  IS  ETERNAL 

LOVE  is  eternaL    It  never  can  die. 
i    Though  we  lull  it  with  laughter  or  drug  it 
with  sorrow, 
Not  the  primeval  sea,  not  the  sun  in  the  sky, 
Not  the  reaches  of  space  are  so  sure  of  a  mor- 
row. 
As  the  waters  of  ocean  in  vapor  ascending. 
Then  in  rain-nourished  streams  through  the  green 
valleys  wending 
Have  the  ocean  again  for  their  ultimate  win- 
ning. 
Shall  not  Love,  through  all  changes,  move  on  to 
its  ending 
In  the  bosom  of  God,  whence  it  had  its  begin- 
ning? 

Love  is  immortal.    It  is  not  of  earth. 

Though  ill  fortune  retard  it,  dear,  what  does 
it  matter? 
Shall  a  harvest  of  roses  be  deemed  of  no  worth 
When  the  taint  of  each  canker  is  purged  in  the 
attar? 
If  earth's  waters  are  purest  through  heaven's  re- 
fining. 


SONGS   OF  WEDLOCK         183 

Shall  the  ills  of  this  world  chill  our  love  with 
repining? 
Here  we  sow,  but  not  here  reap  the  meed  of 
endeavor, 
For  the  fruits  of  our  love,  past  all  human  divining, 
In  the  bosom  of  God  we  shall  harvest  forever. 


i84         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 


THE  QUEEN'S  FLEETS 

TAKE  for  thy  throne,  my  queen,  this  niche 
my  hand 

Hath  carved  for  thee. 
Here  in  the  gray  breast  of  this  dune  of  sand 

That  fronts  the  sea. 
In  sovereign  state  aloof,  the  solitude 
Hedging  thee  round,  as  once  thy  maidenhood. 
Make  me  no  partner  of  thy  thought  or  speech 

This  hour  when  day  and  darkness  meet. 
But  count  me  merely  jetsam  of  the  beach. 

Here  at  thy  feet. 

It  is  mute  beauty's  hour.    No  late  bird  sings; 

Voiceless,  serene. 
The  sea  dreams;  Silence  holds  all  lovely  things — 

And  thou  art  queen! 
For  Silence,  in  the  twilight's  gold  and  red 
Behind  thee,  sets  a  crown  upon  thy  head. 
Send  forth,  O  Queen,  thy  fleets  upon  the  main. 

Send  forth  thy  daring  fleets  of  thought. 
And  let  me  wait  to  hail  them  home  again 

With  riches  fraught. 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK  185 

By  Fancy  captained,  send  thy  fleets  afar 

To  win  the  sea; 
Send  them  to  know  what  spoils  in  ocean  are, 

What  mystery. 
What  beauty  in  all  things  that "  suffered  change  " 
In  coral  caves  to  "  something  rich  and  strange." 
Then  bring  them  home  and  I  with  kingly  might 

Will  take  their  treasure,  as  it  lies 
Safe-harbored  in  the  starlit,  purple  night 

Of  thy  dear  eyes. 


i86         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 


THE  LIVING-ROOM 

HERE  throbs  the  home's  deep  heart! 
From   these   four  walls   the   full,   warm 
spirits  start, 
Pulse  through  the  halls,  return,  and  richest  bloom 
In  this  small  room. 

For  all  who  gather  here  when  day  is  done, 
But,  most  of  all,  for  her,  the  central  One, 
Whose  great  love  to  the  whole  doth  warmth 
impart. 
As  to  the  lesser  planets  doth  the  Sun, 
Here  throbs  the  home's  deep  heart. 

This  is  a  Queen's  domain, 

And  all  her  subjects,  happy  in  her  reign. 

Pray  God  she  may,  with  her  sweet  woman's  grace. 

Long  bless  this  place. 

This  is  her  court.    The  little  airs  that  stir 

About  the  room  are  eloquent  of  her. 

Each  senseless  thing  whereon  her  hand  hath 
lain 
Becomes  in  its  own  way  a  courtier. 

This  is  a  Queen's  domain! 


SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK  187 

This  is  a  holy  spot. 

Ah!  pity  for  the  man  who  knows  it  not! 

But  peace  and  holy  calm,  the  light  o'  love 

Knows  nothing  of, 

The  Queen^s  mate  hath,  when  in  the  quiet  night 

He  broods  alone  beside  his  ingle's  light. 

He  knows,  when  all  his  heart  burns  pure  and 
hot 
With  thoughts  too  sweet  to  speak  aloud  or  write. 

This  is  a  holy  spot! 


i88         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 


A  SONG  FOR  NOVEMBER 

A  GRAY  old  hag,  in  cloak  and  hood 
Of  somber  gray, 
Gleaning  gray  twigs  and  bits  of  wood 

At  close  of  day, 
November  creeps  across  the  land. 
Yet  magic  gifts  are  in  her  hand — 
Her  fagots  cold  need  but  a  spark 

And  hearth-stone  room, 
And  warmth  of  June  from  out  the  dark 
Will  burst  to  bloom. 

Of  foster-mothers  tenderest, 

Close-harboring 
Earth's  sleeping  seeds  within  her  breast 

Until  the  spring. 
Let  gray  November  clasp  the  land. 
Yet  from  her  lean  but  kindly  hand 

Let  us,  dear  heart,  her  fagots  take. 
And  on  this  stone 

A  warm  and  cheery  June-time  make; 
Our  own,  our  ownl 


SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK         189 
TO  THE  INCONSTANT 

YE  are  the  dullards,  and  not  I, 
Ye  conscienceless  philanderers! 
From  one  love  to  the  next  ye  fly 

And  are  forever  wanderers. 
O!  poor,  blind  votaries  of  the  chase, 

Ye  deem  me  coldly  dutiful 
Who,  steadfast,  watch  one  love-lit  face 
Grow  year  by  year  more  beautiful! 

Each  new  love  lives  in  your  desire 

For  but  a  moment's  cherishing; 
Your  passion  is  a  smouldering  fire 

That  is  forever  perishing. 
That,  seeking  change,  hath  only  found 

The  ashes  of  satiety — 
While  mine  hath  but  begun  to  sound 

Its  one  love's  sweet  variety! 


I90         SONGS   OF   WEDLOCK 

THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE 

THE  gates  of  Paradise  are  double, 
And  they  are  blue; 
Blue  as  the  skies  when  no  clouds  trouble 

Their  perfect  hue; 
Blue  as  the  calm  face  of  the  ocean 

When  winds  are  still, 
And  sunlight  only  is  in  motion 

To  work  its  will. 
When  skies  are  dull,  the  sea  is  lonely 

And  moans  or  sleeps; 
The  quick  winds  or  the  warm  sun  only 

May  stir  its  deeps. 

The  gates  of  Paradise  are  double, 

And  they  are  blue; 
They  ope  to  love,  but  cold,  gray  trouble 

Will  clang  them  to. 
Lord,  give  me  strength  that  I  who  love  them 

May  live  aright. 
And  spread  no  tristful  clouds  above  them 

To  dim  their  light. 
By  other  paths  may  other  mortals 

Win  Paradise, 
But  keep  for  me  its  clearest  portals 

In  her  pure  eyes. 


SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK  191 


NOVEMBER 

JUNE  is  sweet,  for  then  I  found  thee; 
But  November,  gray  and  cold. 
Weaves  warm  memories  around  thee, 
Spim  of  gold. 

June  a  rose-time  we  remember, 
Ere  the  boy  became  the  man; 

But  in  earnest  with  November 
Life  began. 

Still  I  see  thee,  as  we  threaded 
Gray  woods  under  grayer  skies; 

Strange  new  hopes  and  fears  were  wedded 
In  thine  eyes. 

And  when  these  had  been  translated 
Into  awed  and  reverent  speech, 

Stronglier  then  our  souls  were  mated 
Each  with  each. 

Deep  with  vernal  promise  laden, 
As  with  buds  the  leafless  wood, 

Here  was  blossoming  of  the  maiden — • 
Womanhood. 


192  SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 

Rich  the  memories  now  that  hover 
'Round  that  day  when  Life  began, 

And  the  lightheart  boy,  thy  lover, 
Was  a  man. 


SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK  193 


THE  MAN^S  PRAYER 

WHEN  all  is  still  within  these  walls, 
And  Thy  sweet  sleep  through  dark- 
ness falls 
On  little  hearts  that  trust  in  me, 
However  bitter  toil  may  be, 
For  length  of  days,  O  Lord!  on  Thee, 
My  spirit  calls. 

Their  daily  need  by  day  enthralls 
My  hand  and  braiii,  but  when  night  falls 
And  leaves  the  questioning  spirit  free 
To  brood  upon  the  days  to  be. 
For  time  and  strength,  O  Lord!  on  Thee 
My  spirit  calls. 


194  SONGS    OF   WEDLOCK 


A  SONG  FOR  DECEMBER 

AUTUMN'S  fruits  are  gathered  in 
And  the  birds  have  taken  wing, 
What  of  pleasure's  left  to  win 
After  song  and  harvesting? 
Winter  hath  its  own  delight, 
Garnering  in  fields  of  snow 
Berries  red  and  berries  white — 
Holly  and  the  mistletoe! 

So  come,  come  along! 

Winter's  winds  shall  swell  our  song. 
While  with  shouts  and  merry  din 
Comes  the  Yuletide  harvest  in! 

Age  hath  reaped  its  youth  and  prime 

And  the  blood  stirs  cold  and  thin. 
What  for  Age  hath  winter-time? 

What  of  pleasure's  left  to  win? 
Harvests  still  of  rare  delight, 

Joys  that  once  it  used  to  know; 
Berries  red  and  berries  white — 

Holly  and  the  mistletoe! 


SONGS   OF  WEDLOCK         195 

Come,  Age,  come  and  sit 
Where  the  cheery  hearth  is  lit, 

While  the  young  with  merry  din 

Drag  the  Yuletide  harvest  in! 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  PINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  REH-URN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


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AUG  18 


OCT  22    1945 


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3  Dec'48TM 


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R^.  CIR.Cl:  13  "^7 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


YB  76463 


439 i 99 


!  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


